THE RIDER AND THE SCRIBE DRAFT, NOT FINAL, BY FANTASY_BOOK_DRAGON
Asher is dead.
He is lying on the bed in the infirmary. The blue curtains are drawn around us blocking us from the view of others and creating a sense of privacy. I choke on tears and carefully go into bed with him. I struggle out of my flight jacket and remove my flight goggles from where they hang around my neck. I breathe in deeply with my face on his shoulder and I can still smell the old parchment and the smokey acidic scent of the iron gall ink he uses or well used I should say but I can’t bring myself to accept that my husband, my love is dead.