Sides of War

Chapter Twenty-Six: Crutch

Two weeks later, Jorlin hobbled out of the dining hall, a crutch under her right arm. The keep was relatively back to normal, but the smell of the dead lingered in the first floor. The men who passed her as she slowly limped along bowed their heads respectfully, and some stopped to talk to her. Conversation had become her adversary, and she answered their questions in as few words as possible before making her way along, trying to evoke as little pity as possible from those around her. When she finally made it to the bottom of the stairwell, she groaned, sagging on her crutch a little more. Going up the stairs would be a painful and lengthy task. She lifted her black dress a bit as she slowly began to climb the stairs, one at a time. It felt like ages passed before she made it halfway up the staircase. Footsteps from behind her echoed in the empty corridor, but she didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

"Draven," she said, hobbling up another step, "I don't need your help."

He said nothing, and when he caught up to her he slowed down to her pace. He didn't have to say anything. She didn't want him to say anything.

She stumbled, and he put his hand on her back to steady her. Slowly, agonizingly, they arrived at the top of the stairwell. As she limped over the last step, Jorlin heard a door slam shut somewhere in the castle, and the sound was so loud to her that she dropped her crutch and reeled backwards. Draven caught her, and she closed her eyes and cringed as she listened to it clatter down the staircase. She didn't know why she shook in fright.

"I'll go get it," he muttered, setting her down on the step gently.

She watched him as he trotted down the stairs, his shadow racing along the wall. When he returned he was holding it, and he helped her to her feet with his other hand. She didn't say anything as she took the crutch and leaned on its support again. Being startled this easily wasn't unusual; her reflexes had become acute to the point where it was ridiculous. She would sometimes scream over things as trifling as dropped objects.

Draven stayed by her side as she limped down the hallway. Her eyes stared ahead, taking in her dimly-lit surroundings with strict observance, yet the only thing she managed to remember was the rhythm of his boots on the floor.

After the siege she was granted her own room to stay in, adjacent to Draven's, and when they walked through the door he pretended not to notice the smashed mugs. Instead, he helped her into bed and leaned her crutch against the wall. She slept often, as unconsciousness was one of her only comforts.

He turned to leave, but he stopped when she said, "I need to go home."

Draven turned around, his arms crossed over his chest, looking at her blankly.

"Can you make arrangements for me to leave tomorrow?"

"You're not well enough for travel," he stated.

"I can make it," Jorlin replied. "It's not too far. Please, it's what I want."

He took a step closer. "Aye, I'll see to it. Only if you let me come with you."

She normally would have smiled.

"I need to see you safe. Okay?"

She didn't reply.

He sat on the edge of the bed with her.

She stared at her hands in her lap. "What's wrong with me?"

He still didn't say anything.

"I'm so tired, and I can't even sleep. I can't even think anymore. I'm not alright; there's something wrong with me," she said quietly.

He put his arm around her shoulders, and she tried her best to keep from trembling.

"I just want to go home."

"I'll take you home," he said. "Are you sure you'll be able to make the journey?"

"Well enough."

"How's your knee?"

To answer his question, she lifted her skirts to reveal her right knee, the joint darkly discolored with a red, knotted scar stretching a couple inches long. A dark purple bruise encompassed the area.

"It looks worse than it is," Jorlin muttered. "I can still manage the trip tomorrow."

He was plainly concerned.

"I'm serious. I want to go. I need to."

He nodded. "Alright. I'll make preparations to leave tomorrow. You should get some rest."

Jorlin sighed. "You know I can't. I can't remember the last time I slept."

Draven showed her his palms in surrender. "What do you want me to do? I can't do anything about it. You'll have to deal with it like the rest of us."

"I should have just died that day," she muttered.

"No!" he said sternly, standing up and facing her. "Don't. Do you think that would have made things better? I was helping you, whether you choose to acknowledge that or not. You-"

"Yes!" she interrupted. "It would have made things better! A lot better."

He opened his mouth to say something, but at first nothing came out. He looked hurt, but even more sad.

"And what would I have done, had you died?" he finally asked.

She looked down and shrugged. "You could have moved on," she muttered after a time.

He made a strangled sound as he looked for words. "You would expect me to get over it that easily? What about Asher? Are you going to move on from his death that easily?"

"Don't talk about him. You don't understand."

"No, I do understand. I understand more than you give me credit for." He stood up straighter as he visibly relaxed. "I was going to let myself die during the siege, after I'd done my duty. I was going to let some Decaster do it. But..." He looked down. "You ...you changed my mind. All this, it's for you."

Tears blurred her image of him. "I don't understand. What's for me?"

"I thought surviving the battle, I thought living, would be enough to make you happy. But if you don't think I would care about your death, you couldn't be more wrong. I did this for you. Can't you do the same for me?"

Slowly, she nodded. "I think I can."

The tension left his taut frame as he expelled a sigh, a warm smile playing at his lips.