Seven Witches

fifteen

Cythera could breathe again.

She wiggled her fingers and toes, they were numb from the lack of movement. Sitting upright, she winced at the pain.

Lifting her garment, she felt around the bandage that was wrapped around her abdomen. She was stiff and couldn't move her torso without irritating the bandage.

Demyan was not in the bed across the room, even though there was no light coming from the window. Cythera felt suffocated, as though she had stayed in this room for years. She got out of bed and opened the window.

She regretted it immediately, cold air rushed in and she shivered. Grabbing her covers from the bed, she wrapped them around her, trying to ignore injury that hurt when she moved her arms.

The disorienting feeling of being both awake and asleep did not leave her, as though she had surrendered her body to some force she'd been fighting off for so long. She couldn't keep her attention on one thing, she either focused on her lungs or the rest of her.

Cotton against her skin was what her mind focused on next, as though she forgot how to control the body of hers. Goosebumps ran down her arms. Will this be how she'll feel if she ever lost control?

Demyan came from behind her and closed the window. She didn't hear or feel him getting closer. "You'll let the warm air out,"

Pacifying the voice inside her head that shouted repeatedly for her to stop stop stop everything, Cythera nodded at him, taking way too long for her to pretend to not be disconnected.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, keep breathing, keep breathing.

His hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

It took all of her will to shake her head no. He let out a small gasp that indicated he remembered something. Opening the drawer in the nightstand, he pulled out a small piece of dried bark.

He crushed it and put the powder in a cup of water and asked her to drink it. "Quinine," he handed her the cup. "It helps with the fever."

The liquid wobbled in her shaky hands which he was watching. She drank it. As soon as she was done, he asked her to raise her skirt for him to check up on the wound. Cythera nodded, careful to not touch the area. To be truthful, she was afraid of what she would see.

Demyan unwrapped the bandages carefully, making sure he too did not touch the area. She couldn't look at it for long, it was ugly and the thought of it perhaps scarring her skin made her want to vomit.

He took a flask of alcohol and poured some of it on a cloth and then dabbed the cloth on the wound. She flinched, going taut. For long moments, she just clung to the bed and shut her eyes hard enough for stars to appear in her vision once she opened them again.

Demyan wrapped a fresh bandage, face pinching as he tried to make a perfect twist around her waist. "What a nuisance," he said and her face heated in shame. "Don't die before you pay me."

She watched him get up from where he was kneeling and head to the bathroom to wash his hands. Once he was back and sitting on his bed, she apologised to him.

He stared at her. "No! I was joking! I didn't actually think you're a nuisance, I was actually pretty worried."

"Worried?" she wondered.

Demyan rubbed the stubble on his chin. "Yes, worry—the emotion. I'm not stone hearted."

She thought that she ought to say nice words more often if they resulted in nicer words. It wasn't that she wanted to be nice to him, its that she felt obligated to. He was a stranger and he had saved her life, the least she could do is not be a burden. Perhaps it was too late to decide to not be a burden.