Luminous

60 - Splinter

Coris may have been whisked from Fyr's raft in the nick of time, and yet, he was still not out of the beguilingly calm waters that could carry him to the dreaded Black Lake. 

Bishop Riddell and Jaise's senior healers had warned that the young Lord Hadrian must be kept under constant vigil all through the night. As the laudanum had yet to be cleansed from his system, it could flare up and bring him under again once the effects of the antidote had subsided. At best, he would only suffer the fevers, aches and nausea of withdrawal. He would need to be kept cool, well hydrated, and well away from more laudanum.

Zier volunteered for first watch without the slightest of hesitation. His offer was undisputed. Being their cousin and closest kin, Simon naturally stepped up to take the next watch.

It was third hour by the time Meya finally drifted off to sleep with her hand around Coris's wrist. Her tears had dried, yet her nose was still rosy, and her breathing was loud and ragged. Simon had tucked in straight away to prepare for his dawn shift, and was snoring softly on his mattress at the foot of the bed.

By the light of the fireplace, Zier could see Coris's eyes still jittering restlessly under their sockets. Beads of sweat glistened on his wide forehead and peppered his receding hairline. Every once in a while, he would rub his head against his pillow, eyebrows furrowed in a frown as he struggled and failed to find his sweet spot. If Zier were to guess, he was aware that Meya had had her finger pressed up against his pulse, and had refrained from tossing and turning to his heart's fill, feigning an easy sleep to lull his Lady into allowing herself some rest.

Zier heaved a private sigh of weariness at the thought. As he watched Coris fidget in place as if tied down by invisible ropes, his shallow well of patience ran dry. He fished the towel out of the water basin, wrung it, then dabbed at Coris's forehead.

Coris wrenched his eyes open halfway. It took a moment as his faculties aroused themselves, before those silvery pupils slid to the side, settling on Zier.

Leaving the folded towel on his forehead, Zier flipped back the corner of his blanket. The taut skin of Coris's naked chest looked bone white, illuminated by the moonlight. He took his brother's clammy, bony hand and warmed it between his.

"Where does it hurt?"

Coris's chapped lips crinkled into a wan smile. He strained his feeble shoulder up for a minuscule shrug.

"Everywhere." He chuckled. His smile widened as he tilted his head, "If you were to leech me, you'd have to suck me dry."

Zier betrayed no flicker of humor, and Coris's smile sagged. He turned instead to his bedmate, staring long and still at her tearstained countenance, before gingerly pulling his arm out of her loosened grasp. It was so thin that it slid out without so much as a brush.

A trail of mucus seeped from Meya's nostril. Coris pulled the towel down from his forehead and dabbed gently at it, then tugged up the blanket to cloak her exposed shoulders.

It was an intriguing sight. Zier had never seen Coris tending to women. Usually, it was women—maids, nurses, Mother—tending to him, sickly as he was. And he couldn't help his curiosity,

"You love her?"

Coris froze with his hand halfway through a sheaf of Meya's hair. Tremors wracked his fingertips, before he withdrew soundlessly back to his side of the bed. Still, his gaze lingered upon her.

"I prefer not to ascertain." His soft voice barely traveled in the thick silence, "I don't have the right to, even if I did."

The truth was evident in the lie. Guilt and fear clashed within Zier. Yet, amidst the maelstrom, there was that waving splinter of denial. He hammered down on it, as he had always did, ignoring the dull pain as it sank back into its crevasse. The words of yesterday's argument beat a tattoo against his skull, and he clutched his numb hands together, head bowed as if in prayer.