Chapter 29.
811 Words
The morning after the Solstice brought a different kind of quiet to the Great Hall. The fires had been banked, the ribbons were ash, but the peace was shattered by a frantic knocking at Rhiannon’s door. It wasn't the heavy, rhythmic thud of a warrior, but the clipped, panicked pace of one of the kitchen staff.
Sora was down.
When Rhiannon reached the weaver’s quarters, the room was stifling. A thick, herbal steam hung in the air- the scent of willow bark and fever, but it wasn't working. Sora lay beneath a mountain of furs, her skin a terrifying, waxy flushed color, her silver hair charms tangled and dull against the pillow.
"Her wolf is fighting it, but the heat won't break," Kael said, standing by the window, his face a mask of helpless frustration. "The winter fever is rare for us, but when it takes hold, it burns from the inside out. Our medicine... it’s like throwing water at a forest fire."
Rhiannon stepped closer, her neon-green eyes tracking the visible tremors in Sora’s hands. She reached out, hovering her palm over Sora’s forehead. The heat radiating from the weaver was immense, a physical wall that made Rhiannon’s breath hitch.
"I can pull it out," Rhiannon whispered.
Kael looked at her, skeptical but desperate. "Magic and fever are a dangerous mix, little fairy. If you freeze her blood-"
"I won't," Rhiannon interrupted, her voice gaining the steel she had found in the Silent Glen. "I’m not making a garden. I’m just... finding the frequency of the cold."
She sat on the edge of the bed and signaled for the others to leave. Fenris appeared in the doorway, his presence a silent anchor. He didn't speak, but his gaze met Rhiannon’s, giving her the silent permission she needed to trust her own power.
For hours, the room remained silent save for Sora’s ragged breathing. Rhiannon closed her eyes, reaching into that deep, crystalline well she had discovered in the Glen. She didn't blow through the rowan whistle this time; she used her bare hands. She placed them gently on Sora’s burning shoulders.
At first, the heat bit into her, making her flinch. But then, she visualized the glass flowers- the way they held the frost without shattering. She began to draw the fever into herself, acting as a conduit. She didn't keep the heat; she pushed it out through her own skin, turning the air around them into a swirling mist of vapor.
Her magic hummed, a low, soothing blue light pulsing beneath her veins. Every time Sora gasped, Rhiannon adjusted the "frequency," keeping the cold delicate, like a layer of lace over a wound.
By midnight, the tremors stopped. Sora’s skin cooled to a pale, healthy dew. Her eyes fluttered open, glassy but focused.
"You smell like... mint and snow," Sora rasped, her voice a whisper of its usual vibrance.
"Shh," Rhiannon whispered, wiping a bead of sweat from her own forehead. "Just breathe. The mountain decided you weren't finished weaving yet."
Rhiannon stayed by the bedside as Sora drifted into a natural, healing sleep. In those quiet, early morning hours, the weaver woke again, reaching out to snag Rhiannon’s sleeve with a weak hand.
"I saw her," Sora murmured, looking at the ceiling. "In the fever. My mother. She was calling me back to the old trails."
Rhiannon felt that familiar ache- the longing for a history she couldn't remember. "Did it make you want to go?"
"No," Sora said, turning her head to look at Rhiannon. "Because I looked back and saw you holding the frost. You’re not my blood, Rhiannon. Fairies and wolves... we don't share a bond. But you stayed in the fire for me."
Sora squeezed her hand, her grip returning. "The Grove gave you a 'Mother,' but the North gave you a sister. I don't need a biological line to know who my soul belongs to."
Rhiannon felt a lump form in her throat. For ten years, she had been a "thing" to be used. In the Grove, she had been a "child" to be raised by many. But here, in the dim light of a sickroom, she was a sister. A choice.
"I never had a sister," Rhiannon confessed, leaning her head against the bedpost.
"You do now," Sora promised, her eyes closing again. "And I’m a very stubborn one. You’re stuck with me."
As the sun began to peek over the jagged peaks, Rhiannon watched her friend breathe. She realized she didn't need to find the Mother’s Song to know who she was. She was the woman who had pulled the fire out of a friend’s blood. She was a weaver of ice and a keeper of sisters.
- Writer
