Songbird's Cage

Chapter 20

"Get up."

It was Arodal's voice. She'd half hoped that everything had been a nightmare, that she would wake in Rory's bed back in Ruid. But the cold wind and the cold words that came through the opening of the tent told her otherwise. It was dim, but she could hear the noise of the camp telling her that she had been asleep for longer than she'd thought, that morning had come too quickly.

"Get up," growled Arodal again. "We're leaving in a quarter hour."

She watched the Weald leave. A hand to her bruised back, she rose, limping to Rory. He hadn't moved since she'd tended to him, and the bandage on his leg was almost soaked through again. Swallowing hard, she unwrapped it, grimacing at the feeling of his hot blood against her fingers. She reached for more of the yarrow salve, but as she put her hand to the wound, Rory inhaled sharply, his eyes flying open. He lashed out, gripping her arm, his muscles contorting as he groaned. A string of profanity left his lips, a mix of the language of the commoners of Esaria and words that she had never heard before, that sounded like the speech she had heard in the Wilds. When the hold of his fingers finally lessened, he was shaking, gasping for breath.

"My leg," he choked, his unsteady hand moving closer to his thigh. She caught it with her own.

"I was afraid that you wouldn't wake up," she whispered, relief making tears cloud her sight. "Rory..."

"Lark." He spoke her name softly, his eyes closing. Her heart swelled – she had been terrified that she would never hear him say it again.

"Where are we?" he breathed. Lark bit her lip.

"I don't know."

He opened his hazel eyes, gazing up at her. "Did they hurt you?"

She shook her head, and he exhaled, thanking the gods under his breath.

"How long has it been?" he asked.

"A day, I think."

He let his hand drop from hers. He was pale and weary looking.

"You're still bleeding," she said, riddled with worry. "Your bandage needed to be changed."

"Do whatever you have to," he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut.

She scraped more of the salve out of the jar, putting her hand back against his leg to rub it into the lesion, nearly sobbing her apologies as his back arched in agony. He stifled his moan. It felt like it took hours to work the yarrow into the deep wound. It was about the length of the distance between her wrist and the tip of her thumb, and as wide as her finger. By the time she was finished, there were tears in his lashes and sweat was gathering at his temples and brow. He barely had enough strength to help her lift his leg to wrap the bandage around it.

"Can you stand?" she asked hesitantly. He made a sound of disbelief.

"What?"

She couldn't look at him. "They said that if you couldn't walk... they would..."

Lark couldn't finish, and Rory let out a thin breath.

"Help me up," he grunted. She did, but she watched the color drain from his face. Even so, he held her shoulders, pulling himself up. He was leaning heavily on her, not putting weight on his injured leg. Visibly bracing himself, he stepped forward.

Lark caught him as his leg buckled, and he gasped. A hand against his thigh, he grit his teeth. When he moved forward again, he let her take most of his weight, managing a few steps.

"I'll be alright," he said.

"You can't walk alone!"

"But I can walk."