The Weaver's Source

Chapter 15

A long time passed before I woke. To me it was just a blur of darkness. Sometimes images flickered in my eyes though. Two men fighting. Snow. Blood. Flashes of light. Then both lying in a fort, dead. I'd approach one, stepping through the cold without feeling it, and found myself staring down at Grigore, his expression distance and blood slipping from his mouth. Even in my unconscious state, my magic stirred in panic and my chest tightened. Dead. Grigore's dead. Dead.

Then I'd be swept away by pain. Sometimes a strange throbbing heat ached in my side or it would be terribly cold, but, along with the fractured dreams and awful aching, I recalled one other thing. Strong hands touching my face, a deep voice murmuring and the taste of honeyed milk.

 When I finally woke, I was in my home, wrapped up in thick blankets with the sound of fire crackling in the hearth of my room.

I blinked wearily up at the wooden ceiling. Sunlight streamed in from the murky window which was the only indication to what the time was and that it was a pleasant day outside for once. I stirred then winced when a sharp pain slithered up my side. The sound of my movement caught the attention of someone sitting next to my bed.

I looked up when I felt old withered hands touch my forehead and smiled warmly when I face of my great-aunt filled my vision. She smiled tentatively.

"Welcome back, my darling." She said softly.

"Hello, aunt Iboloya." I murmured tiredly, my voice cracked from disuse.

"You gave me a right scare, you did." She chided gently after she had helped me sit up. "Otto came to me late one night, telling me you were badly hurt." She sighed and grasped my hand as she sat down again. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yes."

Ibolya frowned. "Well you're alive, even if you have now gained a scar. That wound was hard to patch up. If it wasn't for the Weaver, you would've bled out and died. He managed to fix the worst of it with spells."

I perked up and a light redness glowed in my cheeks. "Is he well?"

Ibolya shrugged but I noticed a flash of pity glimmer in her ancient eyes. "I'm not certain. I have not seen him for a good few days."

Confusion and worry bit. "A few days? How long have I been out? Where is the Weaver now?"

Her old fingers brushed my wrist in comfort. "You've been sleeping for over a week now. I worried whether or not you would wake. The herbal man said you were healthy though. Your body was just tired as it healed itself."

"And Grigore?"

She hesitated and squeezed my hand tightly. "He's gone, my darling."

Emptiness filled me as my magic began to reach out frantically and I nearly forgot how to breathe. 

"Gone?" I echoed numbly.

"He left five days ago. After spending several days hunting the last asrai and ensuring you were well, he left. He had no reason to stay, he said."

Her last words were like a blow to the stomach. He'd gone again, this time for good. The one man I had waited for, the one hope I had for getting out of this place and learning more about my magic, had left me behind. Loneliness and pain filled my chest and clutched at my heart at first, until terror began to touch me. Fear for him stabbed me. I recalled those snippets of fever dreams, of snow and blood and Grigore's bloodied face devoid of all life.

"No. No, no, he can't have gone." I stammered as my throat closed.

"Be calm, my darling, be calm." She said soothingly, touching my hand only for me to grasp her weathered fingers tightly.