Private Tales Shallow Graves

[Althea]

Her eyes squeezed shut, forcing tears to drip from her lashes. Her breaths came quick and shallow with pain and panic. The adrenaline had nowhere left to go, it left her shaking, a fine tremor running through her arms and shoulders as the pain finally caught up.

When he nicked the skin she gasped, fingers clawing briefly at the blanket before she forced herself still. She didn’t cry out. She wouldn’t. Instead she reached blindly for the nearest bottle, fumbled the cork out of it, and drank deep, ignoring the burn in her throat.

She said nothing as he spoke, she couldn’t trust her voice not to break. She nodded quickly, eyes still shut, jaw clenched as she rode out the last sting of stitches in silence.

 

[Leoric Stormcrowned]

He murmured a quiet “Sorry” under his breath and paused until her breathing evened again.

Only when the last stitch was tied and the wounds bound with clean cloth did he sit back on his heels. He set the bloodied tools aside, wiped his right hand on the towel, and spoke softly to the floorboards between them.

“Done. It’ll scar, but it’ll hold. No glass left.”
He stayed kneeling, giving her space, waiting until she was ready to move or speak or send him away. The rain kept its steady drum on the roof, and the faint smell of spirits and blood hung in the close air.

“I’ll clean the tools,” he added after a moment, still not looking up. “Then I can go, if that’s what you want.”

 

[Althea]

She shook her head faintly at his apology, a small, dismissive motion. He was helping her and apologising for it. That was new...

When he leaned back at last, relief loosened something in her chest and she let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. A quiet, humourless laugh slipped free at his mention of scarring.

Like it mattered. Like it could be worse than the scars she already bore..

She pulled the blanket around her back, holding it closed across her chest, and finally dared a look over her shoulder at him. Her brow furrowed, suspicion softening into something more uncertain.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

At his offer to clean up and leave, she snorted softly and shook her head again. “You don’t need to clean them. Or go.” She gave a tired huff. “It’s not safe for either of us right now.”

She rose carefully to her feet, wincing, then turned enough to offer him the bottle she still held, rainwater dripping from her hair onto the boards.

“Do disgraced knights drink?” she asked wryly.

 

[Leoric Stormcrowned]

Leoric remained on his knees a moment longer, head still lowered. The quiet thank you caught him off guard; he had not expected it.

He looked up only when she turned, careful to keep his gaze on her face. The expression there made something in his chest tighten. Broken.

Why had he even helped her? They were both beyond redemption.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

When she offered the bottle, he rose slowly to his feet, mindful of her wounds and the blanket she clutched. He took it with his right hand.

“I might not have embraced every vice, but disgraced knights drink more than most,” he admitted. He lifted the bottle in a small, solemn toast toward her, then took a measured pull. The spirits burned clean down his throat, chasing away some of the cold that had settled in his bones.

He handed it back carefully.

“Leoric,” he said again,L.

He glanced toward the plank door, listening to the rain, then back to her.

“We’ve got a few hours before Gav’s lot dare flood the streets. Rest while you can. I’ll keep watch.”

 

[Althea]

Her eyelids were already growing heavy, the sharp edge of adrenaline ebbing away and leaving only exhaustion in its wake. When he spoke of disgraced knights and drink, she nodded and let out a quiet huff of a laugh, dry and humourless.

“Figures,” she murmured.

“Leoric,” she repeated quietly as she took the bottle back. She drank again, wincing as the burn tore down her throat, then swallowed hard. The idea of someone keeping watch while she slept made unease coil in her gut, but her body was betraying her, dragging her under whether she liked it or not.

She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, legs trembling, and left the bottle with him as she stepped into the cushioned rowboat. She tossed him a pillow, then a blanket.

Lowering herself down, she grimaced as the stitches pulled and fire lanced through her back. Her head hit the pillow with more force than she’d meant, breath leaving her in a soft huff.

“Althea,” she sighed.. He certainly hadn't heard it from Gav, he never said it, she was always 'dollface' or 'toots' or 'wingless sky rat'...

Her eyes slid shut. And she crashed, hard and deep, into sleep.

 

[Leoric Stormcrowned]

Leoric caught the pillow and blanket with a quiet nod of thanks. He spread the blanket over his knees as he settled onto the stool near the door. He set his warhammer across his lap.

Althea’s breathing evened out almost at once. She was exhausted. This was the kind of sleep that came only after the body has nothing left to give.

He watched the rise and fall of the blanket over her for a long moment, then forced his gaze to the door instead.

For a few moments he imagined he was a paladin again. Weapon close at hand, He guarded the princess.

The rain had softened to a steady whisper on the roof. Inside, the boathouse was fairly quiet except for the occasional drip into buckets and the faint creak of old wood settling.

Quiet enough for thoughts to creep in.

He flexed his left hand slowly, watching the faint cracks of ember-glow pulse beneath skin.

What had he done?

Gav would wake in a fury. The Knife-Eels would come looking, and they would not come alone. He had thrown away steady coin, such as it was, for a woman he did not know. Put both their necks on the block for... what? A moment of conscience?

His jaw tightened.

He had stood by for years. Watched worse than tonight happen and done nothing. Told himself survival mattered more than honour. And the one time he finally moved, it was half-cocked and reckless, leaving them both hunted in the Shallows with winter closing in.

Stupid.

The old shame stirred, whispering that he had always been better at breaking things than fixing them. Blood on his hands long before the fire took it.

He rubbed a thumb across the scarred palm, feeling the heat that never quite left.

Althea shifted in her sleep, a small sound of pain escaping as the stitches pulled. Leoric’s eyes flicked back to her, and the whisper faltered.

She was still breathing. Still whole, more or less.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. Maybe that was enough for one night. At least he hadn't even considered using the hammer to make her sleep endless, to take her back to try and curry favour with Gav.

He pulled the blanket higher over his knees and fixed his gaze on the door. The crisis did not vanish, but it quieted.

He would keep watch.

Leoric Stormcrowned sat in the dim with the ghosts he could not outrun, waiting for morning.

 

[Althea]

Her sleep was deep and heavy and mercifully empty. No dreams, no falling, no knives or hands pinning her down. Her body drank it in greedily, knitting itself together as best it could. She'd needed it, and perahps in some small subconscious place beneath the exhaustion, she was aware that someone had watch over her.

The rain had stopped by the time the rosy light of morning began to seep through the cracks in the boathouse. The air smelled cleaner, washed. Seabirds cried around the docks as fishermen set off. Morning.

Her brow furrowed and she shifted, reluctant to surface. Then memory came rushing back all at once, of last night and the realisation that she had not been alone. Her eyes snapped open, searching for Leoric. She found him where she’d left him, still awake..

A long breath slipped out of her, tension easing as quickly as it had returned. She tried to stretch, immediately hissing as the stitches pulled hard across her back. She stilled, jaw tightening, then let herself relax again.

“You should get some sleep,” she murmured, voice gritty with sleep, eyes still on him.