Ashes to Stardust | Sihtric Kjartansson

Chapter 12: The Amulet

I wake in a frightful fit, panting, sweating, leaping up from the suffocating furs and pillows and blankets to sprint for the bathing chamber–and vomit into the pot. And then again. And again. Hugging the cold metal, trying to contain the sounds of my retching.

The first rays of sunlight leak through the small window and bounce off of the stone, providing dim illumination as I try my best to force quiet between the gagging. Another morning awoken before I am unable to tell the faint light of this chamber from the endless night of Eiríkr's cellar, my cold sweat coating me akin to the dampness of the prison walls, and hurtling for the bathroom.

I sit back from the bowl and rest my head against the wall, savouring the coolness of the stone, flattening my hands against the chill of the floor.

Real. This is real. This is real; I made it out. I've left for good. The panting continues while I wait for the nausea to surely subside and the lingering tremors to spread apart and fade like ripples in a pond.

One...two...three...I count each breath. Only a nightmare. Another one, of too many. I focus on my breathing–in through my nose, out through my mouth. Over and over.

Nineteen...twenty–unless this is another dream–a fever-dream from inside the cellar, and if I pinch myself I'll wake up back in the dungeon and–I uncurl my knees from my chest and lunge forward retching again.

Real. Real. This is real. You made it out. You left for good. I repeat between bouts of sickness.

"Stjarna?" murmurs the low voice behind the door.

I struggle to compose myself, wiping the sweat from my brow. "Go away Sihtric. I'm fine." My voice croaks through trembling breath.

The door creaks open slowly, Sihtric stepping inward from the shadows. I brace myself over the bowl, counting each breath again from the beginning. I lock out my elbows and squeeze my fingers into fists upon the metal–squeeze the fists so tight that pain splinters through my hands as my nails threaten to puncture my skin.

Sihtric takes a hesitant step closer, apprehensive yet determined. "You don't look fine," he says softly, reaching out a hand as if to comfort me.

I flinch away instinctively, unable to argue my way out of his touch in my current state. "I said I'm fine," more forcefully this time. He kneels down onto the floor beside me and I avoid his powerful gaze.

I can just make out Sihtric's brow furrowing as he swipes the loosen braid over my shoulder with two gentle fingers. "Okay," they trace down my spine to linger at the small of my back. "Fine is good," he whispers, "fine is great."

We both know fine is a lie.

My breathing steadies as I sit back onto my heels, wiping the back of my palm over my mouth. I expand my lungs to their full extent just to feel the uncomfortable tingle, and release the long breath out through my mouth. I meet Sihtric's golden and silver flecked eyes with my own sapphire gaze and realise–my nightmare was not haunted by them. I look between each iris intently...searching. Searching for the memory in my nightmare where I had felt them devour me wholly. But I can't find it. I dreamt about the hissing of rats and the foul stench of my cellar. It's rotten walls and endless darkness. But not his darkness.

Uncoiling to my feet, I brush off Sihtric's palm resting upon my lower back before padding over to a stone bowl and rinse out my mouth, then wash my face–more times than necessary as if it will wash away this strange realisation. The shadows behind me stretch as Sihtric raises upright through his heels and slowly steps into my view in the mirror.

He opens his mouth as if to ask a question, but before he can speak I cut him off. "You can get out now." He says nothing but continues studying me through the reflection, assessing my face and the frowning expression upon it, then the darkness that encircles my eyes, next the sharp contours of my collarbone and where my nightgown hangs from my bony shoulder.