Midnight Moon

Chapter 37 - Duty

Neyerith peeled his face from his pillow, his mouth feeling like he had eaten a blanket. As he lifted his head a fraction, he felt the spinning headache roll around his skull and groaned. He hadn't felt this bad since the last winter solstice, when he had met a woman named Elvie, the same as his sister, and drowned himself in liquor until he could no longer stand.

He licked his cracked lips and screwed his eyes closed tighter. Gritting his teeth, he sifted through the haze covering his memory and groaned again at the fragments that returned. He should have known better: it was one thing to drink alone, but there were costs when he lost himself around others, around people he cared about.

"Ancestors, you look worse than I do."

Neyerith cracked his eyes open, renewed relief washing over him at the sight of Veanna perched on the other bed, her face bright and healthy again. Of the splintered memories of the night before, he had at least retained his delight at her recovery.

That joy faltered at a dark twinge in his stomach. He had been hired to get her home, and yet he had almost led to her death. He would have prayed to his ancestors for her continued survival, but he had no hope they would listen to him.

Part of him wanted to rush over and hug her as he should have done the moment she regained consciousness last night, but his head pounded and his body felt like it had been trampled on. Instead, he waved a hand weakly. "It's just the lack of sleep, Princess; I'm not a morning person."

"It's lunchtime." Her lips quirked, eyes shining. Calu sat beside her, tousled curls and foggy eyes suggesting that he had not been awake long. He smiled too, though his gaze was lowered to his knees. "Besides, weren't you a soldier? That must have required far more early rises."

"I mainly did it for the uniform; girls love it." The lie fell from his tongue with ease, and he blinked away the faces of his family before he could consider why he dismissed them. It was effortless after years of practice.

She rolled her eyes. "Why am I not surprised?" But she smiled; a free, pure smile a child should be blessed with, not the awful stillness and pallor of the night before.

Neyerith allowed himself to grin back, pushing himself gingerly into a seated position with as little movement of his head as possible. He winced as he twisted, hands jumping to his wound - it felt like it had healed considerably overnight, but there was a residual ache to his core. Tia approached him, picking up the healing ointment from the table as she passed.

He looked into her face, expecting to see anger, sorrow, resentment, or any of the myriad emotions she had every right to levy against him. Yet her expression held nothing, no grief nor fury; it was simply set and painless. He almost wished it would crack, but wasn't sure he should see what was underneath.

"Lift your tunic," she said dispassionately, opening the pot.

"There are easier ways to get me to take my clothes off," he replied automatically. But the jibe was half-hearted - after bringing pain to her face for the first time the night before, he had no desire to push her any further.

Her expression broke into a scowl, and he hurriedly pulled his tunic back from his wound before she could yank it away. His caution was merited, because there was no gentleness when she applied the ointment. The ache was quickly overcome by the intense stinging pain that accompanied the salve, and he gave a cry of complaint.

"Stop being infantile," Tia hissed, though she drew back and wiped her hand clean. "Your injury must heal if you are to be anything but a hindrance to us."

Neyerith considered retorting, but decided against it. Tia's face was tight, and Veanna watched with apprehension usually reserved for spectators at a jousting tournament. Instead, he looked at the wound and was relieved to see it had already reduced to a raised line, angry red but healed over. Even with the ointment, it would leave a scar, but that was a small price to pay.