Figurehead

thirty-three

There isn't much room on his bed. It's not meant for two people, after all, and he obviously can't move himself. I moved him over a little bit, as gently as I could. I'm not strong enough to actually lift him up or anything like that, but I was able to make just a little bit of space.

So here I lie now, literally on the edge of his bed. I don't know if it is anywhere near first light. The fire is a bare flicker, and it's colder now than it has been for days. I was barely half-awake- woken by the cold, I suppose- when I wobbled across the room and touched his cheek. It was cool to touch, although his breathing was even when I leaned down to check, panic flooding me for a moment.

My mind still wasn't fully awake as I gently moved him over and climbed up, but now I don't think I can sleep. Keep him safe and keep him warm, Ret had said yesterday. Is it still yesterday now? I don't know, but my breaths come out as soft puffs in the air. Why is it so cold now? I pause, turning my head to watch his breaths rise into the air as clouds.

Well, whatever day it is, I don't think this is quite what Ret meant. I can't feel the cold anymore, at least. Not with my heart pounding so loudly and my skin burning. My fingers are curled into fists.

He's so close.

When I first woke, my eyelids were stuck together and heavy, and my mouth and breath smelt, and they still do now, but my eyes are wide open. Can he hear me breathing? Because I can hear him, although his is nothing like the strained and uneven breaths of mine. Can he hear my heart stumbling? Because it's so loud. So loud that, in the silence, I wonder if it would be loud enough to wake him.

I'm fully dressed, and there are two sheets and a pelt draped over the both of us, but I'm well aware he's just wearing a loincloth. I can feel his skin whenever I dare move, and even when I don't. He's right there. Right here. The edge of the bed presses into my back but any closer, and my head will be on his chest.

I shouldn't be doing this. I should go back. But if I return to my pallet, then I take with me the natural- and for him, additional- warmth of my body. And if he grows cold...

Forgive me, Lord, if I am doing wrong. Please help. I don't know what I'm doing. Your will be done, Lord. In the name of Your Son, amen.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Even my prayer was strained.

I can't roll onto my side like I usually do. That's not an option. If I roll to my left, I fall off the bed and wake Fiut or Tui- if not both- up. I do not want to face either or both of them. If I roll onto my right, then my face will be in the crook of his neck. Also not ideal.

If he's to wake up, then I hope it will be after first light when I've left the bed.

Why am I so warm? What's that sound? And what is this?

It takes a while for my disoriented mind to catch up to my body, and to my surroundings. But when I do, and I pry my eyes open, I can't breathe.

That is skin. Not my pallet.

Definitely not my pallet.

Dark skin. Scarred all over. A chest, covered, mostly, by tousled sheets. With my head right next to it and my hair streaming all over it in a mass. What has my head been resting on? My eyes flick up and stop short.

So that sound is his breathing. And it is not even. It isn't even. It isn't even. It isn't even. Is he awake? Could he be awake? It isn't even. It's not even. Well, mine isn't either, because I'm not quite capable of breathing now, although my pulse is going completely crazy. Too warm. Too warm. I scramble back, trying not to touch him further as I recoil, falling off the edge of the bed in the attempt and getting whatever air was in my lungs knocked out of me in a whoosh.

The same impact forces a short laugh out of me as I stare up at the bed and I force myself to breathe, glancing at the empty doorway. Is it first light yet? There's no fire in the firepit now, and that's not right. It means nobody has come in at all since after falling light.

I reach up to touch my face and it still burns, despite the cold air in the room. I touch my hair. A complete mass of knots, as usual. At least I washed it yesterday and it smells of hisiar oil. Unlike my breath. I stifle a grimace at that and peel myself off the ground, forcing my- extremely unstable- legs to support me as I stand, taking a safer look at him.

His breathing is definitely uneven. A little loud, although not any louder than mine. Which doesn't say much, because mine seems so loud in the quiet, cold air. His fists are clenched. Tightly. And his eyes look to be squeezed shut. My pulse spikes further, and I wonder briefly if I could die from having an overactive heart.

"Dein?" My breath of a whisper sounds so loud, like a shout, in the silent, cold room. If I focus, I can see the little clouds of air rising from his lips and from my own with each ragged breath.

He moves, and I almost fall to my knees, a strangled breath stuck in my throat. All he did was unfurl his fists before clenching them again, but it is enough to force me to grab the back of the chair on my left for support.

I can't be dreaming, right? If this was a dream, he'd have opened his eyes long ago.

He takes a deep breath, unfurling his fists again, slowly.

"Dein?" I repeat, and his name sticks in my throat. I still can't breathe, not yet. "It's me." It takes several tries before I can get the words out properly.

His eyelashes flutter, his eyelids flicker and his breath shudders before he finally opens his eyes, turning them to meet mine.

And I can't speak, I can't even stand up properly and maybe I can't see properly either, because everything is just blue. The same vivid blue, overwhelming and familiar and soothing and confused and pained and broken and raw and- I crumple to my knees, gasping for breath.

He's alive. He's awake. He's alive. He's awake. He's alive. He's awake. In the repetition of these two sentences in my broken mind, I finally manage a silent 'praise the Lord Almighty'. And then there's nothing else I can think. Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, praise the Lord, praise the Lord, praise the Lord.

I try and breathe, try and catch my breath, but it's not easy when my throat is so full and so thick with words unsaid and my eyes are streaming and I'm choking, unable to say anything, able only to cough while my nose starts making a mess.

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, praise the Lord, praise the Lord-

"Janf?"

I don't know how I manage to fall silent when I can't breathe and I know I need to, but I do. I swallow hard, audibly, and grab onto the side of his bed for support, my legs shaking and unable to hold me up as I stand.

"Yeah?" I croak, voice hoarse. I meet his gaze and I lose any of the words that came to my mind before.

I jump at the sudden sound of someone else's voice. "Janf? What's going on? Why are you co-"

We turn to see Tui stumble, leaning against the doorway as she gapes at us, gasping for breath. "Tui?" She nods dumbly at his address, tears falling from her eyes.

"Fiut," she rasps. He appears behind her, eyes round as he stares at us, mouth opening and closing and opening and closing.

"I'll tell the guards," he stammers, and he runs off.

I turn my gaze back to him, to the king, to Dein, and I manage a smile through the tears and the mess of my hair and my nose. And when he smiles back, his eyes a blur of vivid blue I hope I'll never tire of seeing, I release a strangled noise I don't understand.

He's alive, he's awake, praise the Lord.

They are my only coherent thoughts.