And Then The Darkness Came

Chapter Ten | Graggöry

Graggöry flinches.

Lysithea ignores him as she pours a capful of hydrogen peroxide over the infected cut on his right wrist. As the chemicals slowly mix with the infection in his blood, the wound bubbles. Absent-mindedly, the fingers of his other hand curl into a tight ball, making a squeaking noise against the mahogany desk. He concentrates on the scratchy texture of the towel underneath his arm, and when that isn't enough, he watches the bubbles dissipate until they're just a faint red liquid that's slipping down his arm, toward his bent elbow. Lysithea brings his wrist back down to the towel and smothers a thick, odorless cream she's found somewhere, which, to his great displeasure, stings worse than the hydrogen peroxide—more than the shame of how he got this wound.

"Stop flinching," Lysithea says, her blonde bangs falling over her eyes.

He tries not to move, cursing under his breath. Lysithea looks up from his wrist and sighs, her haunting blue eyes meeting his. She quickly looks away, screwing the lid back onto the ointment before setting the container down on the desk, next to the towel.

"It wouldn't have gotten this bad if you weren't so godsdamned stubborn," she continues, shaking her head. She picks up a small bundle of gauze next to the ointment, unrolls a bit, and places it over the cut, carefully smothering and wrapping it. This way, the wound won't get any more dirt inside of it. "Or, you know—you could have just talked to me instead of this."

When he doesn't know what to say, she continues, "What were you even thinking, Graggöry? You promised you'd never—"

She's interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Come in," Graggöry says, his voice low, calm—the voice of a leader.

"Sir, St. Mary's called—David is stable."

He eyes the junior secretary. Young—too young to already be throwing her life away to senseless politics.

"That's good to know," Graggöry says, a slight weight lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you."

"Of course, sir," the secretary says. Her voice is smooth and sweet—she has a voice that could make a man make a lot of mistakes.

She gives him a smile and nods to Lysithea before closing the door, her high heels clicking on the tiles as she walks back to her desk.

He averts his attention back to Lysithea, avoiding the pain clearly painting all her features.

"You could have died," Lysithea whimpers. "You wanted to—"

"I'm sorry," he says because it's all he can think to say. He watches her, his charcoal eyes concentrating on her pale, thin fingers trembling slightly as she continues to wrap his wrist.

"It's not deep enough to do any actual damage, Lys," he says, low and calm again—the protector now. "I'm okay."

"I know you're not okay," she says. "I know when you're lying."

He doesn't reply.

"Nothing in this world is safe anymore," Lysithea says. "None of us are indestructible, are we?"

He shakes his head.

"It's okay," he whispers, taking her hand in his. He runs his thumb over her knuckles and smiles as best he can. Pushing his chair away from the desk, he pulls her into his lap, nuzzling into her neck as she falls against him. "You don't have to worry so much, silly girl. I promise you, Lys, I'll be okay."

"I know you will," she says, "but—"

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