Legendary Loves Volume 2

Chapter 2-2

I doze for a couple hours, rising only when my guest grows restless on the bed. When I check on him, fever roses bloom on his cheeks yet again, and I prepare more tea.

Even though he never opens his eyes or shows any signs of consciousness, it’s easier to make him drink the tea this time. As soon as the liquid is in his mouth, he swallows on his own accord, as though he’s aware of me on some level.

Again, the effect of the tea is almost instantaneous, and I frown. Once, and I could easily believe I was imagining things. But twice?

No. It’s not my imagination. And come to think of it, the effect didn’t last as long as it usually does. Whenever I have a fever and drink the tea, I sleep for many hours after. The stranger lasted only a couple hours before the illness disturbed his rest again.

Is he sensitive to the needles? Are they hurting him instead of helping?

More questions without answers frustrate me, and I need to work it off, so after a final check on the stranger, I put on my warm, hooded cloak, shove my feet into my knee-high boots, and step outside.

The rain has stopped and so have the winds. A freezing chill has taken its place and leaves crunch beneath my feet as I round the cabin and step into the barn out back.

My feet carry me on their own volition to the stable part, but Springer’s box is empty. My neighbor Thorwald’s horse had died, and I’d lent him Springer for a few days so he could visit his family, but I miss Springer’s calming presence. He always lends his ears when I have something on my mind, when I have concerns I need to let out. He’s a great listener, even if he’s only a horse. He will vocalize and let me snuggle him as I work out what ails me, something I definitely could use today with the stranger in my bed and questions churning in my mind.

“I hope Thorwald takes good care of you, boy,” I mumble—knowing that he does—cross to the other side of the barn, and open the door to the room where I keep the wood. I fill a crate, carry it inside, unload it next to the hearth, and repeat the process several times.

When I’m confident the wood will last me several days, I return inside. I drink the rest of the broth and decide to start a pot of soup.

I pull away the moose skin covering a wooden hatch in the flagstone floor next to the hearth and climb down the ladder to the basement—mostly a huge earth cellar where I store all my produce—and gather roots, vegetables, and dried aromatics in a basket, adding a slab of venison before returning upstairs.

After a quick check on the stranger—who’s sleeping restfully—I start cooking. As I chop, slice, and dice everything into smaller pieces, I keep an eye on him, his reaction to the tea worrying me.

When I yawn, I make tea for myself—toss some dried roots and mint leaves in a pot, and pour hot water over it. As I wait for it to steep, I jump on the spot to get the blood flowing. When the tea is done, I gulp it so quickly I burn my mouth, but the effect is almost instantaneous. The sleepiness is pushed back, and I don’t need to worry that something will happen to the stranger just because I couldn’t stay awake.

When the soup preparations are done, I carry the pot to the hearth and hang it over the fire. Then I move the rocking chair so I can keep one eye on the sleeping stranger and the other on the soup.

As I feared, the effect of the fever-reducing tea wanes even quicker this time, and soon the stranger grows restless. His legs move under the covers, his head whipping from side to side, and he mumbles something I can’t make out. I hurry to his side and kneel by the bed. Carefully, I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze.

“Honored stranger.” I keep my voice low and movements slow, so I won’t scare him. His eyes move rapidly under his lids and he turns his head toward my voice. It’s the most reaction I’ve gotten from him so far.

He struggles to free his arms from under the covers, and I lift the rabbit fur to help them. He calms a little when his arms are no longer restrained, so I take the opportunity to study him. His color is much better than before; the grayish tinge and the fever roses are gone. I lay my wrist against his forehead and sigh in relief as he’s no longer burning up.

I sit back on my heels.

Curious. Very curious.

Maybe my fears that the tea hurt him were unfounded. Instead, it seems as though it has helped him, but at an accelerated pace. Never in my life have I seen someone with such a high fever recover so quickly.

I brush away a strand of hair from his face. “Who are you?” I whisper.

When he seems to be sleeping restfully again, I get to my feet, but as I turn to leave, a tug on my sleeve and his faint voice stops me. “Do not leave. Please.”

The sound of his voice makes me jump, even though it’s more like a whisper than anything else. I look down on him, his arm out, hand holding my sleeve, eyes still closed.

“Do not leave,” he repeats.

“I will only fetch you some water, stranger. You must be parched.”

He tugs on my sleeve again as if to stop me, but after a moment, he releases his grip. After crossing the floor with a few hurried steps, I pour fresh cool water from the flagon into a bowl.

His eyes are still closed when I kneel next to the bed again, but I can tell he’s awake by the way his head tracks my movements.

“I will lift your head and help you drink,” I explain before touching him again, and he tilts his chin, giving me permission. I slide my hand around his neck, cup the back of his head, and ease it off the bed. He drinks in deep gulps until the bowl is empty, and when I lower him to the pillow, he sighs.

“Thank you, Hunter.”

I stiffen at his words. “Do you know me?”

Slowly, he lays a hand on his chest. “I feel you.”

“How?” My head is spinning with all the questions this man’s arrival has brought. For every passing hour, they multiply, and I can no longer keep track of them all.

The stranger doesn’t answer my question—somehow I knew he wouldn’t—so I try another approach. “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I know not who you are.”

His pries open his eyelids, long eyelashes fluttering like a hummingbird’s wing. Even in the dim light—cast only by the flames in the hearth—I can make out the color of his eyes—so dark they’re almost completely black, generously sprinkled with flecks of gleaming gold, and despite the obvious tiredness, his gaze is bottomless and intense. It pulls me in and settles some of the restlessness in my chest at the same time.

And when he looks at me, I understand what he’s talking about.

I can feel him, his presence. As though his heart beats next to mine in my chest. As though his breath mingles with mine when it leaves my mouth. As though I see myself through his eyes. As though I know him.

“My name…” His voice falters.

“…is Vinge,” I finish, a gasp escaping at my own words.

“Yes.” He closes his eyes again as though he can relax now that I understand.

But how can I know his name? Despite the earlier fleeting familiarity, I’m certain I’ve never seen him before—he is not the kind of man to be forgotten. I didn’t know his name, not until he opened his eyes, those intriguing eyes that resemble the starry sky on a dark night, except that the stars are golden instead of silvery.

The questions want to spill out of my mouth, but I clench my teeth and trap them inside. The stranger—Vinge—is in no condition for an interrogation, and I’m not sure I’m ready for any answers he can give me. I need some time to mull it over.

“How are you feeling?” I ask instead, keeping the conversation on something tangible.

“Tired. Thirsty.”

I hum and go to refill his bowl with more water, and this time when he drinks it, he opens his eyes, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Better?” I ask as he lies down.

He nods.

“I have to ask. Your reaction to the alvea tea was most unusual. Are you sensitive to alvea?”

He shakes his head. “On the contrary. My body processes medicinals more rapidly than usual. It is common among my people.”

My people? What an odd way of phrasing things. But his voice is weak, and I decide to hold off on more questions for the night.

“Very well. Let me prepare more tea, and you can rest.”

He nods and lets his eyes fall closed. He doesn’t open them again, but he holds on to my sleeve the entire time he’s drinking the tea.

“I wish you a restful sleep, Vinge.” I bow my head in respect even though he can’t see me.

“And I you.”

I step away from the bed and wash the bowls. After stirring the simmering soup and putting a lid on the cauldron, I sit in the rocking chair, daring to allow my body to rest now that my guest has assured me the medicine won’t harm him.

The sound of his rhythmic breathing keeps me awake for a while. I haven’t slept in the same room with anyone since I’d lost my father. I never invite anyone to stay the night in my cottage; all my liaisons over the years have been temporary, and I’ve never stayed the night in a lover’s bed.

So the sound is foreign to me at first, but after listening to it, taking it in, letting it wash over me, it becomes soothing, and eventually, it lulls me to sleep.