Songbird's Cage

Chapter 21

Rory turned his head to the side as something dripped down his neck. A hand went to his face, and he felt a cold cloth being pressed against his forehead. He was freezing, aside from his leg, which was still on fire.

Rory opened his eyes. Lark was kneeling close to his legs. Her clothing was covered in dirt and blood.

She had been crying.

"It's not proper for a princess to be in such a state," he murmured, giving her a weak smile, exhausted with the effort of keeping his eyes open. "What would the court think?"

She looked up in surprise, realizing that he was awake.

"Rory!" Lark gasped. He tried to move, but his hands were tied behind his back, binding him to the post supporting the tent, which was buried in the ground. Before she could move towards him, the tent flap was pushed open, revealing Arodal. The tall warrior walked in, tossing a small cloth bag at Lark's feet.

"Your rations," he said. His eyes met Rory's.

"Don't waste them on him," he grunted to Lark. Rory let out a soft breath that he had been holding as the man left. He understood the Sylvan's words perfectly, knew that he wasn't going to be alive for much longer. Somehow, he couldn't muster the strength to be angry or  afraid.

Lark pulled a waterskin from the bag, and he became acutely aware that they hadn't had anything to eat or drink since the morning before. He marveled at how unlike other nobles Lark was. She hadn't once complained or even spoken to the fact that she must have been thirsty enough to collapse, hungry to the point of nausea.

She uncorked the skin, holding it out for him to drink. He turned his head away.

"Not until you do," he said, willing to die of thirst before he let Lark go without food and water any longer. His chest ached when he looked at her. She was so beautiful that it hurt.

"Rory–"

"Don't argue with me."

Lark drank, and he could see her relief, the reluctance with which she stopped. She quickly hid the emotion, pressing the waterskin to his mouth. He took two swallows before pulling away.

"You need to drink!" Lark protested. "Your fever–"

"Listen to that Weald brute," he said softly. "Don't waste water on me."

His answer upset her, and he felt guilty, but she needed the rations far more than he did. There was no use in squandering them on a dying man.

"Eat, at least!" she begged, close to tears. He shook his head.

"I'm not hungry." It wasn't a lie. The searing pain from his leg had long ago eliminated his appetite.

Grimacing, he shifted against his bindings, letting his head fall back against the post. He longed to be untied, but it wasn't worth the harm it would bring to him, and he would never risk Lark's life in that way.

His leg throbbed with his heartbeat, hot and swollen feeling. He could tell that it was infected. Rory knew that the wound itself might have killed him, had the Sylvans not chosen to do it first.

"When are they going to kill me?" he asked Lark. She gripped the hem of her shirt, worrying the fabric.

"They won't," she said. "They can't!"

"Forgive us, Princess. I'm sure you understand." Arodal's mocking voice made Lark stop, tears trembling on her lashes. The massive soldier had stepped once more into the tent.

"You're to be executed tomorrow morning," he said, studying Rory. "Bastion has decided that there's no point in wasting the energy, not tonight."

"How considerate," Rory said, regarding him coolly.

"Shut up, Esarian. You're in no position to judge Bastion's orders."

Arodal stepped forward, crouching beside Rory. He placed a hand over his wound, and Rory screamed as the Sylvan dug his fingers into the deep laceration.

"Know that I'm to be your executioner," he growled. "Don't anger me. Your death doesn't have to be fast."

"Let him go!" Lark cried, shoving Arodal away. He laughed.

"Sleep well, Princess," he said, walking from the tent as his words dropped away. "You have a long walk ahead of you."

Rory's heart hammered against his chest. He flinched as Lark brushed away tears of pain from his face.

"Forgive me," he said, taking a shaky breath, "for leaving you. Lark, please forgive me."

She put a hand against his uninjured leg.

"Don't apologize!" she pleaded. "It's not your fault."

He fell silent, just wanting to look at her face. There was a serenity that came to him when he was near her, an innocence and beauty in the way her brows drew closer together when she faced something she was unsure of, in the way her shoulders remained back and defiant despite the defeat in her eyes. He was just a guard, a servant, and yet Princess Lark, the future queen of Esaria, remained at his side, changing the bloody bandage wrapped around his ruined leg. Her tender fingers would always be against him when they were free, and whenever she looked up at him with her blue-grey eyes, his heart seemed to falter. He desperately didn't want to die, if only because it meant being taken away from her. For a moment, the pain in his heart at keeping back how he felt about her was almost as severe as the pain in his leg. He wasn't allowed to feel as he did, and it didn't matter if they were a thousand leagues from the castle, or even an entire kingdom away, he was still of repulsively low birth and she was still the wife of the crown prince.

Lark touched his face, and he managed another breath. His body felt hot and light, and he wondered if he was going to lose consciousness again. He could almost hear music in the distance, in the wind that pressed against the canvas of the tent. Lark's hand moved to his forehead, and there was fear in her eyes, but he could only focus on how blissfully cool her skin was against his own.

"I'm proud to have served you," he breathed, closing his eyes again.

"Don't say that like they're your last words!" she said, her voice breaking with emotion. "It doesn't mean anything. Am I only a job to you?"

He used what little remained of his strength to shake his head. "No."

"Then tell me something that matters!" Lark cried. Rory wanted to look at her, but found himself too exhausted to open his eyes. The dizzy warmth of sleep was calling to him again. He had a sudden desire to have his head on her lap, cradled between her legs like when she had found him in the fighting ring. If he was to die, he wished it could be in her arms.

"I love you," he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Lark's breath left her. He heard the sound, knew he should be ashamed of what he had betrayed, but he was too weary, too weak, with nothing left to lose.

"You foolish bastard," Lark whispered. He opened his eyes. Tears were running down her cheeks.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, swiping away a tear with a finger.

"I–" he began faintly, but he never finished. Her lips were against his and she was kissing him, her hands against his chest.

Rory was delirious. It was the only way that Lark would be against him. But if it was a dream, he was willing to succumb to it, as long as it meant that he could stay with the woman he had fallen in love with.

The feeling of her lips lingered on his skin, and that night, he passed the hours listening to Lark's gentle breathing as she slept with her head against his unhurt leg. He dreaded the morning, when the Sylvans would take him from her.