"A Flame that Fades"

Chapter 23: Awake for Her

Azgar's POV

"Azgar, you need to rest. Freya is alive and healing. It's your turn to rest and heal," Agnar said softly, his voice low and steady, as though afraid any sudden movement might shatter the fragile silence hanging between us. His hand rested on my shoulder, firm yet comforting.

I flinched away from his touch instinctively, as though his warmth burned me, though the truth was quite the opposite. My skin stung with the chill of the frostbite, the numbness creeping deeper into my muscles like an unwelcome guest. Grunting under my breath, I glanced down at my shoulder and noticed the pale, sickly white patch of skin where frostbite had taken hold.

It wasn't just my shoulder. Now that I looked closer, the full extent of the damage became more apparent. My arms were marked with patches of frostbitten flesh, mottled and discolored. A faint tremor coursed through me as I tried to flex my fingers, and pain shot up through my knuckles. My hands—once strong, capable, and steady—looked like they belonged to someone else, someone broken. The pale skin was cracked, with deep, angry red lines tracing the outlines of where the frost had taken root.

Turns out there were more parts of my body that were damaged than I cared to admit. My legs, my chest, my back—they all bore the marks of my desperation. But I hadn't noticed it before, hadn't felt the cold gnawing at me. The adrenaline from carrying Freya through the storm had masked the pain. The panic. The raw terror of losing her. And let's face it, I had been shirtless. Stupidly, recklessly shirtless in a blizzard, thinking only of getting her home, of saving her, not of the cost it might exact on my own body.

"Agnar, I'm fine," I muttered through clenched teeth, though the words felt hollow even to me. The ache in my limbs, the chill in my bones, told a different story. My brother's gaze hardened, his jaw tightening as he crouched in front of me, his expression equal parts frustration and concern.

"No, Azgar. You're not fine," he said, his voice rising slightly, though it was still edged with an uncharacteristic gentleness. "You look like you've been dragged through Hell and back. You can barely move, let alone stand. Just—sit down, for once. Please. You've done enough." His hand reached out again, this time to steady me as I swayed on my feet.

I wanted to push him away, to tell him to leave me be, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I found myself sinking down onto the edge of the bed, my body betraying me as exhaustion finally took hold. My limbs felt like lead, my chest rising and falling with shallow, ragged breaths. Agnar didn't move for a moment, watching me with that same infuriating look of quiet determination.

"I said I'm fine," I repeated, though the tremor in my voice betrayed the truth. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, the frostbitten skin pulling painfully with the motion. I refused to meet his gaze, staring instead at the floor, at the faint bloodstains on the stone that I hadn't yet managed to clean. Freya's blood.

"You're not," Agnar said quietly. There was no anger in his voice now, only sadness. "Azgar, you can't keep doing this to yourself. You can't keep running yourself into the ground for her, for anyone. Freya wouldn't want this. She wouldn't want you to destroy yourself trying to save her."

His words struck a nerve, but I refused to let it show. Instead, I let out a low growl of frustration, running a hand through my hair as I forced myself to stand again. My legs wobbled beneath me, but I ignored it. Ignored the way Agnar moved to catch me, his hands hovering at my sides.

"I don't need rest," I snapped, my voice harsher than I intended. "I need to protect her. To make sure this doesn't happen again."

Agnar's eyes softened, but there was a flicker of something else there too—anger, maybe, or disappointment. "And what happens when you can't protect her because you're too broken to move? What happens when your desperation gets both of you killed?"