𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜰɪꜰᴛʏ-ꜱɪx

Keeping Watch.

🧶

    Rory sat in a plush chair she'd pulled up to his bedside, her body slumped forward, elbows resting on her knees, as she watched him. Luke lay on the narrow bed, unmoving except for the faint rise and fall of his chest, his breaths slow and shallow. Outside, the Princess Andromeda creaked and groaned as the ocean waves lapped against its vast hull, the rhythmic sounds strangely at odds with the heavy silence in the room.

    It had been nearly a week since that fall, yet he hadn’t stirred. The memory of it still haunted her—the sight of his broken body after the impact, limbs twisted at angles that no human form should endure. A miracle, they’d said. It was a miracle he’d survived. But looking at him now, Rory wasn’t sure how much of a miracle it really was. Even after copious amounts of ambrosia he was still so far from himself.

    His face bore the brutal evidence of what he’d been through. His skin was a canvas of dark purples, sickly yellows, and bruised shadows, the aftermath of his injuries carved into him like a testament of his suffering. His right eye was swollen completely shut, the flesh around it puffed and angry, tinted with shades of green and blue, while the left barely opened enough to reveal a sliver of his gaze—haunted and hazy whenever he came to, only to sink back into unconsciousness moments later. Bandages swathed his torso, layered thick over his broken ribs and cracked sternum, hiding beneath them the worst of the damage, wounds that no ambrosia could heal overnight.

    Rory’s hand hovered just above him for a moment, hesitant, her fingers trembling before she finally allowed herself to reach out. She gently brushed a lock of his dark hair from his forehead, the strands damp with sweat. His skin felt feverish under her touch, hot to the point of worry, but there was a pulse—a faint, steady thrum beneath her fingertips, a reminder that he was still with her. She lingered there, feeling the rhythm of his life beat softly against her hand, fragile but unyielding.

    The cabin was wrapped in silence, broken only by the distant, rhythmic lap of waves against the ship’s hull and the muted hum of the engines vibrating through the floorboards. The small lamp on the bedside table cast a soft, golden glow over his face, catching on the faint sheen of sweat and accentuating the hollow shadows under his eyes, the deep lines of pain etched into his features. The light brought out the gaunt angles of his face, his cheeks sunken from days of fighting against pain, his jaw tight even in sleep as if he were still bracing himself against some invisible enemy.

    She felt a weight press down on her chest. Worry settled there, thick and unyielding, mingling with a deep, gnawing guilt. She hadn’t been there when he’d needed her most. She should have been there. The thought churned through her, stirring memories of every time she had left someone behind or let them down. This was how she imagined Luke must have felt after their own quest, years ago, that guilt and self-blame festering like a wound. She felt it now, raw and consuming, filling her with the sickening knowledge that she might have saved him from some of this suffering if only she’d stayed by his side.

    She rarely left the room now, only stepping out when absolutely necessary. The thought of not being there if he woke up—or worse, if he didn’t—was unbearable. Each second ticked by with aching slowness, and she found herself leaning forward, listening to his shallow breaths, her own heart skipping every time his chest seemed to pause.

    The blankets had slipped down his shoulders, and she gently adjusted them, tucking the edges around him to keep him warm. It was a small comfort, but it was all she could offer in this moment. She studied his face, watching for any flicker of consciousness, any slight movement that might tell her he was still in there, fighting. The faintest twitch of his eyelids, a subtle shift of his hand—anything.