When Caeda awakens, the clerics tell her she has been asleep for the better part of two days.
She is inclined to believe them. Whenever she shuts her eyes, she is reminded of Death’s searing darkness, how the dark daggers had encircled her before digging into her, exploding before her eyes. They say she will be sore for a week, perhaps more, and Caeda traces the faint outline of a scar along her cheek — a memento from a time long past. She wonders if Lyon’s spell will add to the tapestry of scars painted across her body. The mage had been so timid at the battle’s onset — had it all been a ploy to lower her guard? She had even encouraged him, told him to give it his all. A soft, rueful laugh escapes her. She, of all people, should have anticipated such a tactic.
With a great effort, Caeda props herself up on her elbows, slowly taking in her new surroundings. Even the dim light of the infirmary tent is too bright to the Talysian after the unending darkness. But even through narrowed eyes, Caeda instantly recognizes that familiar shade of blue beside her, lying on his own cot. She’d know even if she were blind.
“Marth,” she whispers, voice hoarse. Stiff fingers rest upon his arm, glad to his warmth. “Are you hurt?”
Excitement dwindles to embers across the newly emptied fields of Gronder, students of several house allegiances returning to the monastery grounds in order to resume less remarkable studies. King Marth - though healed to the point of near perfect recovery - does not resume such features of normalcy quite yet. For two days, no forces of rest, regularity, or recommendation can pull him away from his sentry.
By her side he sat still and warm. Nary a movement to displace his silent vigil save an occasional sip of water to wet his dry throat, or a crop of new questions posed for the clerics. Her battle with a mage grounded her badly, their reports said, and the fact means that he has found more rest upon a hard stool than a proper bed. He minded it little, of course; it was exceedingly important to him that he saw the progress of her healing for his own. It was also important because the picture she painted was without any worldly price.
Frail and sunken in the too-large sheets, her lovely moon of a face twitching restlessly in sleep, Caeda was still impossibly beautiful. He’s reminded quietly, all too nostalgically, how long it has been since he’s seen her like this. In Archanea, he would have viewed her sleeping face for as many mornings and moments as he drew breath. For all the months he’d spent in Fòdlan, deliberating over kingdoms and matters not his own, every dawn had been one where he woke up alone.
But on this evening he doesn’t. As Caeda slept his mind tumbled awake with his thoughts and worries. Exhaustion alone had dragged him from the chair, submitted to a joyless slumber in the space beside her. A deep crease in his brow and his arms crossed tightly over his chest, one could have thought him less a king and more his corpse locked in rigor mortis. It is only her voice and the faintest touch of her hand that drives him to consciousness like a hot spur - nearly spilling from the cot in a fly of long limbs and longer curses.
“Caeda!” Marth chokes instead, swinging upright with a harsh squeak of wood and hinges that draws the disapproving eyes of the infirmary denizens. “How are you feeling? They said your burns would heal fully by the end of the fortnight, but not to move too recklessly. To keep off the lance and saddle as best as you could for a few more days, and—”
Drawn to her like a flame, he reaches towards her in the gloom with a hesitant stroke of his knuckles across her whittled cheek, then the firmer mold of his palm against it. Caeda, though weak and freshly awoken after two days of inertia, continued to glow even now; with her tangled river of hair and chapped colorless mouth, papery pallor and tired look of concern, Marth could not have loved her more.
“To think that you’ve been bedridden for days, and the first thing you do is ask of another! Your kindness is surely impossible. Thank you, my love, but I’m alright.” Affectionate and exasperated all at once, love simmers in his eyes as he takes her hand in his own. Mindful of her weakness, for now he could only hold her in this way and do no more. “You’ve awoken, but don’t push yourself. Strength doesn’t return easily - spend as much time resting as you like. Whenever you’re ready... I’ll be here.”
