"A Flame that Fades"

Chapter 29: The Weight of Night, the Relief of Day (New vers.)

Freya's POV

I was still sore from hauling Esme's drunk ass home like she was a sack of flour with legs. Azgar carried Agnar — and on top of that, he'd had another nightmare. Bad enough to leave him shaken and psychotic.

When Agnar finally sobered up enough to check on us, Azgar tackled him straight to the floor. Half-asleep. Half out of his mind with whatever horrors were gnawing at him from the inside.

I barely got a few minutes of sleep after that, before I realized Azgar was gone again.

When I found him, he was hunched over the water basin like a ghost, softly whimpering as he scrubbed his hands raw with what little was left of the soap bar. His palms were covered in angry, bloody lacerations — red and stinging beneath the cold water.

He didn't even notice me watching from the doorway.

So...here we are now.

Breakfast is quiet. Miserable.
Esme's nursing her pickle juice like it's the elixir of life, head barely holding itself upright. Agnar groans every few minutes, rubbing the bruises on his neck while he chokes down the same foul cure. Both of them look like someone dropped them down a flight of stairs and then asked them to run a marathon.

Azgar?
He's asleep at the table. Not deeply — just enough that his breathing is slow and steady, arm curled beneath his head like some makeshift pillow. His breakfast sits untouched and cold beside him, the steam long gone.

None of us speak. Not because we don't want to. But because none of us really know how.

And honestly? That silence feels like the most honest thing in the world right now.

Last night had seemed to be going fine.

Agnar and Esme were drunk, passed out in a heap while Azgar and I sat on the balcony. I even watched him drink whiskey for the first time — like he was actually enjoying himself for once, after everything he's been through.

The past few weeks had been good. At least during the day.
But I guess I was wrong.

The nights...the nights were a whole different kind of nightmare.

It scares me how we went from laughing on that balcony just yesterday evening — him cracking a few odd jokes, whether from the whiskey or his broken humor — to him almost killing Agnar and then crying in my arms while I tried to calm him down.

But for now, at least, he's getting some sleep.

I gently placed my hand on his head, stroking his hair and watching his curls glide between my fingers. He looked so vulnerable. Small. His eye bags were swollen and dark, like bruises blooming beneath his skin.

Even in his sleep, he moved — brushing a loose strand of hair from his face before sinking back into his fragile rest.

I stared at his hands. Bandaged. Sensitive.

I'd wrapped them just four hours ago, when I found him at the water basin, scrubbing his palms like a lunatic. Chanting, "Why won't it come off? Why won't it come off?" over and over, crying like something inside him was breaking all over again.

***

Everyone kept telling me I needed rest. That I should move to another wing of the castle, get some sleep, let the worst of his terrors pass.

But I couldn't.
I couldn't leave him — not again.

I'd run once, and I'd promised myself I would never run again.

He slept through the entire breakfast. I only dared to approach the dining hall when I finally heard him groaning about neck pain from sleeping at such a terrible angle. Quietly, I stepped behind him and began to rub his tense shoulders.