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chapter nineteen. hemophilia
Cold. Shivering cold. A blue glow against a film of flesh. The thunk, thunk, thunk of bone on wood. Garbled tongues, or a garbled brook. Dark water. The thunk, thunk, thunk of metal on stone.
"... this and wrap it, wrap it tighter ... need to stem that ... the bleed, it won't stop ... awake, stay awake ..."
Young, she'd almost drowned, in the deep of winter, crouching on ice, which one second stood solid and the next slurried at her feet. Shock made her a blinking statue. Below the ice was still. Calm. The desperation that had placed her atop did not follow her below. And she thought, maybe this wouldn't be so bad, closing her eyes, the chill beginning to feel like the fireplace. She felt the ghost of her mother's hand. It pulled her up.
He was the oldest man she had ever seen, all crags and gorges. She had never seen him in her life. But he'd faced her with familiarity. With a frown, and a contradictory sorrow to the wistful pearls of his eyes.
"This is the wrong one."
Fallon struggled to raise her head to the voice. She could sense the silhouette of those behind her. Her cheek burned; she had landed fast and hard upon the thin royal blue rug. Through her hazy vision, she spied the curled feet of a throne, and those of the one who sat upon it.
" ... lock her in the dungeons for now. Gortash has much explaining to ... "
The sound of metal slamming echoed into the depths of her skull.
She stirred at the feeling of coarse fabric against her cheek. Her eyes fought against the exhaustion that crusted her lashes. When she won out, she saw the rag, and the hand it was wrapped in. Hessa's arm strained between the bars, the sleeve of her tunic ragged.
"Didn't think it were good for you to sleep long. Least they had the decency to leave you here." She said, waving away Fallon's croaky attempt to thank her. "Sh. Don't go pulling attention. Come closer and we'll short you best we can."
Hessa rolled a smooth, flat rock between the bars to lie her cheek against. There was a leak from an old tap that the boy twin cupped his hands beneath while his sister formed a neat channel for Fallon to drink. When she'd drunk her fill, Hessa wet the rag and passed it through the bars.
"How long ..."
"Not." Hessa replied. "Stop fussing. It'll make it worse. Keep still. Gain back your strength."
