The Final Messenger

15. Ink Clotting

Cold. Wet. Soft. A welcome texture to her burning, thudding forehead. Metal gently pries her lips open to invite warm, savoury soup into her parched throat. Her head is propped up on some pillow. A clock is ticking in the background. Her hand stirs and feels the confines of just soft, so soft blanketing her body. Everything is going to be okay.

"Niryn?" Her name feels nice coming out of that voice. She wouldn't mind hearing it again.

Then everything comes vomiting into focus. A television flipping through channels distorted with all painful colours and words and sounds and gasping for white, white, white. It all happens in the span of a hand moving to its next digit.

If she wasn't already on the bed, Niryn would be collapsing under the weight of everything. Her mind is screeching to process information that for her, only happened a few seconds ago.

Yet very dully, she registers the presence of another person in the room.

Lydia.

Niryn glares at her with the full force of a loaded gun, as if to say 'you.' The woman smooths the blanket over her uncovered toes, not acknowledging the look.

"Adria told me everything that happened. Poor little pet."

Niryn keeps her focus on the mistress, trying to squash down her anger.

"You were taking a walk to your brother's place when the rain started pouring in. Dreadful weather."

Lydia takes the damp towel from Niryn's forehead, making her miss the cooling sensation. The touch is rough, likely because she's never had experience taking care of a child before.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to go out in the rain?"

No, because you took her away from me.

After the silence Niryn gives in return, Lydia continues on, "Ah well. I immediately came home to see how you were doing. Adria did a good job looking after you. She's a doll, that girl." The sounds of water being squeezed out and dripping plays like a dagger to a beating organ.

"I can't believe you were so careless. You know, you're very precious to us."

She looks pointedly at Niryn's coal-hardened eyes, but the girl is so fuming with anger that she almost doesn't catch the connotation.

With a hand to her face that feels like red ants crawling on her skin, Lydia lays the towel on her forehead.

"After all, we can't risk you getting sick when you're up for another excursion in the morning."

I could fucking kill you.

"I'm okay," Niryn says stiffly. "I just need some rest." The woman is not a fool. Lydia knows exactly what the look Niryn is giving means, but instead just purrs, "Good."

Lydia's lips are closed when she grins. "Good girl," she says, lifting her offensive body off the bed.

"I'll be in our bedroom if you need me. Victor's having quite the headache as well. Get some rest, dear. I'm sure you needed it after last night."

As the wooden door clicks, Adria flits her gaze towards her bedridden friend.

"I don't understand," she says.