Different Worlds

CHAPTER 7: THE WOUND

The battle quieted before dawn.

That frightened Fay more than the noise had.

She sat beside Desmond in the inner room while Mara watched the corridor. The boy slept against her, one hand still curled around his wooden horse. His face was smudged with soot, and his hair stuck up in every direction.

The keep seemed to be holding its breath.

Then a door opened at the far end of the room.

The guard captain entered.

His armor was broken. Ash streaked his face. His sword hung at his side, dark with blood.

Fay rose immediately.

“Where is he?”

The captain looked at her.

“The king is alive.”

For one second, relief loosened every muscle in her body.

Then she saw his expression.

“But?”

“He was struck.”

“How badly?”

The captain hesitated.

“Badly enough.”

Fay moved toward the door.

“He told me to take you and the boy through the western passage,” the captain continued.

“No.”

“Your Majesty—”

“Where is he?”

“He is securing the lower hall.”

“He cannot secure anything if he is bleeding.”

The captain said nothing.

Fay turned toward Mara.

“Take Desmond.”

Mara’s eyes narrowed.

“Where are you going?”

“To find my husband.”

The word hung in the room.

My husband.

Fay had never said it there before. Not aloud. Not in front of the servants. Not in the middle of a war.

The captain heard it.

So did Mara.

Fay took a torch from the wall.

Then she left.

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The western corridor had been torn apart.

Stone had fallen from the ceiling. A section of the wall had collapsed, leaving the passage open to the cold night air. Smoke drifted through the broken arches, carrying the smell of iron, wet earth, and burning wood.

Wounded soldiers sat along the walls. Some bowed when Fay passed. Others were too exhausted to move.

At the end of the corridor, she found Ethan.

He stood beside a broken archway, his sword hanging from his left hand. His right hand was hidden inside his coat.

He looked up when she approached.

“You were told to leave.”

“You were told to come back.”

“I am here.”

“Barely.”

She reached him.

He tried to straighten.

Failed.

Fay saw the blood beneath his armor.

“Let me look at you.”

“It is nothing.”

“You are a terrible liar.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep giving me reasons.”

She pulled the torn armor away from his shoulder.

The wound was deep.

Ethan watched her face.

“Don’t look at it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it has already taken me.”

Fay looked up.

“It hasn’t.”

“No.”

“It hasn’t.”

She pressed a cloth to his shoulder.

Ethan hissed.

“Sorry.”

“You are not.”

“No.”

Her voice shook.

“I am furious.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“That is better.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

“Can you run?”

“No.”

“Then we walk.”

She moved beneath his left arm and pulled it over her shoulders.

Ethan leaned against her.

Together, they began moving down the corridor.

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They descended the inner staircase slowly.

The keep had fallen almost completely silent.

Not peaceful.

Silent in the way a battlefield became silent when there were too many dead to make noise.

At the bottom of the stairs, Ethan stopped.

Fay turned toward him.

“What is it?”

He looked down at his right hand.

It hung at his side, the fingers slightly curled.

“I can’t feel it properly.”

“Your hand?”

He nodded.

He tried to flex his fingers.

His thumb moved.

The first two fingers twitched.

The rest remained still.

Fay took his hand in both of hers.

“Try again.”

“Fay—”

“Try.”

He looked at her.

Then he concentrated.

The fingers moved a little.

They stopped.

He tried harder.

Pain tightened his face.

Nothing changed.

“It’s all right,” Fay said.

“No.”

“It may come back.”

“No.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know my own hand.”

He stared at it.

His voice became quieter.

“It took the wrong thing.”

Fay did not understand.

“What did?”

Ethan did not answer.

She waited.

At last, he looked toward the empty hall.

“The war.”

His gaze lifted to the crown emblem carved above the stairs.

“It wanted the oldest thing in the house.”

Fay’s eyes moved from the crest to his face.

“What does that mean?”

Ethan looked at his hand again.

“I don’t know.”

A distant bell began to ring.

One note.

Then another.

The keep was counting its dead.

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The physician’s room smelled of crushed herbs, boiled linen, and blood.

Ethan sat on a narrow bed while the physician cut away the fabric around his shoulder. Fay stood beside him, her hands clenched at her sides.

The physician examined Ethan’s right hand.

He lifted one finger.

“I can feel that,” Ethan said.

The physician lifted another.

“That one.”

He pressed his palm.

Ethan winced.

“And this?”

“Pressure.”

“Pain?”

“Not exactly.”

The physician looked at Fay.

“The nerves may be damaged.”

“Can you fix them?”

“I can clean the wound.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

The physician glanced toward Ethan.

“Some things mend because the body remembers how.”

Fay’s voice sharpened.

“And the things it doesn’t remember?”

The physician said nothing.

Ethan looked at her.

“Enough.”

“No.”

“Fay.”

“You are sitting here while everyone talks about you as if you’re already gone.”

“I am not gone.”

“Then say it.”

He met her eyes.

“I am not gone.”

“Again.”

His jaw tightened.

“I am not gone.”

Fay nodded.

The physician returned to the wound.

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Later, Desmond sat on the nursery floor with his wooden horse in his lap.

Mara gave him a piece of bread.

He did not eat it.

“Is Papa dead?” he asked.

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the king is difficult to kill.”

Desmond looked down at the horse.

“Mama said he got hurt.”

“He did.”

“Can hurt make you dead later?”

Mara paused.

“Sometimes.”

Desmond’s small fingers tightened around the wooden animal.

“Then don’t tell Mama.”

“Why?”

“Because she’ll be sad.”

Mara sat beside him.

“Your mother is already sad.”

Desmond stared at the floor.

“Then we have to make Papa better.”

Mara looked at him.

He was five years old.

He should have been thinking about honey, horses, and whether the snow would melt before he could ride through it.

Instead, he was learning the arithmetic of fear.

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By evening, the physician had finished dressing Ethan’s wound.

His right hand rested on a folded cloth.

Fay entered carrying a basin.

“You don’t have to do that,” Ethan said.

“I know.”

She set the basin down and began washing the blood from his face.

Ethan watched her.

“The keep held.”

“Did it?”

“The enemy withdrew before dawn.”

“How many did we lose?”

Ethan looked away.

“Enough.”

“Ethan.”

He closed his eyes.

“Enough.”

Fay wrung out the cloth.

“Desmond asked if you were dead.”

Ethan’s eyes remained closed.

“What did you tell him?”

“That you were difficult to kill.”

A faint smile touched his mouth.

“Good.”

“He wants you to have breakfast with honey.”

“Then I will.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can promise breakfast.”

“You can’t promise tomorrow.”

“No.”

The silence between them grew heavy.

Fay sat beside him.

She took his right hand.

It remained loose in hers.

“Try.”

“Not tonight.”

“Please.”

Ethan looked down.

Slowly, he tried to close his fingers.

The thumb moved.

The first finger bent.

Then the movement stopped.

His jaw tightened.

Fay held his hand more firmly.

“Again.”

“It won’t.”

“Again.”

He tried.

Nothing happened.

Tears filled Fay’s eyes.

Ethan saw them.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me as if I have become someone else.”

“You haven’t.”

“I have.”

“You have a wound.”

“I have a hand that won’t close.”

“Then we will find another way.”

“Another way to do what?”

“Everything.”

He looked at her.

“You say that as if the world has agreed.”

Fay glanced toward the window.

Outside, smoke drifted over the valley. The sun was sinking behind the mountains, turning the snow a bruised shade of violet.

“The world doesn’t get a vote.”

Ethan looked away.

“It always has.”

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The Great Hall had become a place of mourning.

The long tables had been pushed aside. The dead lay beneath white cloth along the walls. The wounded sat on blankets while healers moved among them. A priest murmured prayers over the fallen.

The Book of Houses remained closed on its stand.

Thomas stood beside it.

The Old Steward approached him slowly.

“The king should not be here.”

Thomas did not look toward the physician’s corridor.

“He is not.”

“He should not be left alone.”

“He is not alone.”

The Steward glanced toward the doors.

“Grief does not wait for law.”

Thomas placed one hand on the Book of Houses.

“Neither does winter.”

The old man studied him.

“You believe the king will recover?”

Thomas’s expression did not change.

“I believe recovery is not a legal category.”

The Steward’s mouth tightened.

“You have always been quick to understand what a thing is worth.”

Thomas looked toward the covered bodies.

“Someone must be.”

A bell rang.

The hall grew quiet.

Thomas lifted his eyes toward the crown emblem above the throne.

For the first time, he did not look away.

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That night, Ethan slept.

Fay sat beside him in the physician’s room while the candle burned low. The flame leaned whenever the wind pressed against the damaged shutters.

Ethan’s right hand rested on the blanket.

It twitched once.

Fay leaned forward.

“Ethan?”

His eyes remained closed.

“Fay?”

“I’m here.”

“Did we win?”

Fay looked at him.

“They left.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

She took his hand.

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then she added, “We won.”

Ethan breathed out.

“Good.”

“Ethan?”

He did not answer.

Fay watched his face.

He had fallen asleep again.

She lowered her head over their joined hands.

Outside, the wind moved through the wounded keep.

It passed through broken windows and torn battlements. It whispered along the corridors where soldiers had carried the dead. It stirred the banners hanging above the Great Hall.

And somewhere deep beneath the stone—

a door knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Then a third time.

Fay lifted her head.

The candle flame bent toward the floor.

Ethan’s right hand lay open beneath hers.

Unable to close.

The darkness gathered around them.

And beneath the keep, something waited.