Chapter : 985
But the alternative was to die here, to freeze to death on the cold, black rocks, or to be torn apart by the creatures that the night would inevitably bring.
With a slow, shuddering sigh that was the sound of a lifetime of pride finally, reluctantly, bending, she made her choice. "Fine," she whispered, the word a fragile, broken thing.
Carefully, painfully, she maneuvered herself onto his back. He was solid, warm, a stark, living contrast to the cold, dead stone around them. He adjusted his grip, one arm securely under her legs, the other supporting her back, his movements sure and steady. And then, with a grunt of effort that spoke of his own profound exhaustion, he stood.
He was carrying her. The thought was so absurd, so fundamentally at odds with the entire history of their relationship, that it was almost comical.
He began to walk, his steps slow, steady, and deliberate, conserving his remaining energy. He moved with an uncomplaining, resolute purpose, his body a living shield for hers.
Rosa, for her part, was trapped in a state of profound, disorienting intimacy. She was pressed against him, her arms loosely around his neck, her cheek resting against the rough, travel-worn fabric of his tunic. She could feel the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, the subtle, masculine scent of leather, sweat, and a faint, clean smell that was uniquely, indefinably him.
It was the closest she had ever been to him. It was the closest she had ever been to any man. And it was, in its own way, more terrifying than the Monolith Bear.
She was a queen who had just been forced to surrender her throne, a warrior who had been forced to lay down her sword. She was vulnerable. She was dependent. And she was in the arms of the one man in the world who represented the greatest, most unpredictable, and most dangerous threat to the cold, ordered, and perfectly controlled fortress of her soul. The journey to find shelter had begun, but for Rosa, a different, and far more perilous, journey had just started.
Lloyd moved through the deepening twilight with the grim, plodding determination of an overloaded pack animal. Each step was a testament to his own stubborn, unyielding will. His body was a screaming symphony of pain and exhaustion. His Void reserves were a barren wasteland. The additional weight of Rosa on his back was a brutal, agonizing burden. But he did not stop. He could not stop. To stop was to die.
He followed the base of a sheer cliff face, his eyes scanning for any sign of a reprieve, any shallow overhang or crevice that could serve as their sanctuary for the night. The temperature was dropping rapidly, the biting wind a physical, relentless assault. Rosa, despite her own icy nature, had begun to shiver, her body’s shock and blood loss making her dangerously susceptible to the cold.
He could feel her, a fragile, trembling weight against his back. He could feel the soft, almost imperceptible puffs of her breath against his neck. He could feel the way her fingers, which had at first been held in a stiff, formal position, had now unconsciously tightened their grip on his tunic, a small, desperate act of a woman clinging to her only source of warmth and stability.
The intimacy of it was a strange, unsettling, and not entirely unwelcome distraction from his own physical misery. He had spent years in a cold, silent war with this woman. He had seen her as a political piece, an obstacle, a beautiful, frozen statue. He had never, in all that time, considered her as a person. As a woman who could be cold, who could be afraid, who could be in pain. The simple, physical reality of her presence, of her vulnerability, was a new and profoundly disorienting data point.
After what felt like an eternity, he saw it. A dark, narrow fissure in the rock face, partially obscured by a cluster of dead, skeletal shrubs. It was not much, a shallow, windswept cave no larger than a small room, but it was shelter. It was sanctuary.
With the last of his strength, he pushed through the shrubs and into the relative darkness of the cave. A final, draining Void Step, a desperate, last-ditch expenditure of the very dregs of his power, allowed him to carry her inside, bypassing the treacherous, uneven entrance.
Chapter : 986
He gently, carefully, set her down, her back against the smooth, cold stone of the cave wall. He then collapsed beside her, his body finally, completely surrendering to the overwhelming, bone-deep exhaustion. For a long moment, they simply sat there in the darkness, two wounded animals who had finally found a den, their ragged, gasping breaths the only sound in the world.
Lloyd was the first to stir. The soldier, the pragmatist, the part of him that would not, could not, rest, took control. He pushed himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. He fumbled in his pack and produced a flint and steel and a small, resin-soaked fire-starter. With numb, clumsy fingers, he managed to strike a spark and bring a small, pathetic, but life-giving flame to life.
He fed the small flame with dried moss and twigs he had gathered earlier, and soon, a small, cheerful fire was crackling in the center of their small cave, pushing back the oppressive darkness and the biting cold.
The firelight cast flickering, dancing shadows on the cave walls, and on Rosa’s pale, beautiful face. Her eyes were closed, her expression a mask of pained exhaustion. The shivering had subsided slightly, but her skin was still a stark, unhealthy white.
He laid out his medical supplies again, a small, pathetic collection of cloths, a waterskin, and the leather pouch of herbs. The doctor, the healer, took over once more. He knelt before her, his gaze clinical, professional.
“You’re in immense pain,” he stated, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. It was not a question; it was a fact. A fact he had gleaned not from his powers, but from the faint, almost imperceptible tremors in her muscles, the subtle, pained tells that his trained, soldier’s senses had picked up. “The feedback from my… instincts… confirms significant tissue damage. Yet your face is a mask.”
Her eyes fluttered open, dark, deep pools of shadow in the firelight. She stared past him, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames, as if seeing a ghost in the fire. “I sacrificed such things long ago,” she whispered, her voice a fragile, brittle sliver of ice. “Emotion is a liability. I have none to spare.”
The admission, so stark, so absolute, so profoundly, tragically sad, hung in the air between them. It was the philosophy of a survivor, the creed of a soldier who had been at war for a very, very long time. And he, more than anyone in the world, understood it.
He said nothing. He simply gave a slow, solemn nod of understanding.
He took his sharp, clean knife and, with a single, precise cut, slit the ruined, blood-soaked leather of her leg armor, exposing the hastily bandaged wound beneath. He would need to clean it again, to apply a fresh poultice to fight off the infection that was already trying to take root.
“This will require direct application of the poultice,” he said, his voice level, professional.
He reached for the herbs, then paused, his hand hovering over the bare, pale skin of her thigh. He expected her to flinch, to recoil from his touch. It was the logical, predictable reaction. He was a man. She was a woman. They were strangers, bound by a cold, political contract. This was a breach of the final, most sacred line of their armistice.
But she remained perfectly, unnaturally still. Her body was a statue of pained, rigid control. Her stillness was an answer in itself. It was a silent surrender of control, a quiet, desperate admission that her pride, her fortress, had finally, completely fallen. And it was, in its own way, the most shocking, most vulnerable, and most profoundly human thing he had ever seen from her.
With a surgeon’s precision, his fingers, which had just hours ago killed a god, began to clean the wound. They were surprisingly, almost impossibly, gentle. He then applied the crushed leaves and a soothing salve, the mixture cool and calming against her feverish skin. For the first time, she felt a sensation from him that was not a challenge, not a political maneuver, not a weapon. It was simple, focused, and profoundly gentle care.
He worked in a focused, methodical silence, his movements sure and efficient as he wrapped the wound in a new, tight, clean bandage. The physical pain was still a roaring, all-consuming fire in her leg. But for the first time since they had stepped onto this gods-forsaken mountain, Rosa Siddik did not feel entirely alone in the flames. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in a very, very long time, she allowed herself to simply… be.
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