Sylfir grits her teeth as she pushes herself up on Ivan's bed after another day of bedrest. She's sick of lying down, watching as daylight waxes bright, only to wane and grow a deeper shade of orange as the hours pass her by. Today was a beautiful day, and she spent it inside the same four walls, kept there by her dire wound. Her irritation, pain, and fear make her blind to the remarkable progress she's made in so short a time, or so Khaliss tells her.

To her, it means little that she can walk a few paces with Khaliss' help. And almost every time she manages it, the pain from her wound is sharp, hot, and utterly excruciating. That she has to rely on someone so completely irks her. And more than that, there is the fear that she will remain this way—perpetually in need; divested of her independence.

And another kind of fear infiltrates her heart from time to time. She may find some distractions to keep the thoughts at bay, but they always circle back to the beast. Its slavering jaws, its savage claws, its guttural growl. Sometimes, it feels like its hot breath brushes over her skin, and she shivers. She's never truly alone; never at peace.

Sylfir turns to the window at her bedside, seeking another distraction. She sees people walking up and down the main road, most of them farmers, one of them a priest. Khaliss tells her she owes a lot of her recovery to them, and the local alchemist who saw fit to provide her supplies and skills. She's grateful, of course, but the knowledge does little to lessen her impatience or soothe her agitation. More than anything, she wishes Khaliss could rid her of the beast's sickness altogether, but the cleric is not an infinite well of power, and must rest, too. Sylfir only hopes her affliction will be gone soon—her allies are due to arrive in a day or two, and she would not have them see her in such a pitiful state.

Knock! Knock!

Sylfir sighs, shifting awkwardly to look at the door. It will be Khaliss. She's probably here to check on her yet again. Not that it's not appreciated, but the constant attention can be suffocating. Still, she doesn't have it in her heart to spurn the well-meaning cleric.

"Come," she says.

The door opens, but too slowly, and Sylfir frowns. It's almost like Khaliss is afraid to see what lies within. Sylfir almost speaks, if only to assure the cleric that she's decent.

But she sees gently tanned fingers wrap around the wooden door, then blue eyes peeking inside the room, cautious as they lock onto her.

A silent gasp parts her lips. "Ivan?"

He steps into the room, almost relieved, judging by the almost imperceptible, gentle sigh that leaves him. Sylfir has never seen him so tempered. Solemn. His expression is only heightened by the dark circles under his eyes.

"Sylf." 

His eyes flick to the chair by her bedside. She beckons him with a subtle wave of her hand and he comes to her, taking a seat. It's only then that she's keenly aware she's in nothing but a flimsy nightshirt and smallclothes.

"How are you feeling?" he says.

"I... I've been better." A nervous, humming laughter escapes her, but Ivan doesn't seem amused. In fact, he seems distant, like he's sinking into a vast ocean of memory, and when he finally breaks the surface of those dark waters, he can't quite face her.

"We weren't sure you'd make it through the night when we first got you here."

Sylfir grows still. It hurts to see him like this. Enough for her to reach out to him and rest her hand on his shoulder. When he looks at her again, she smiles. It's subtle, but it's enough to soften his frown. "But I did, Ivan. You found me in time to get the help I needed, and that's all that matters. Thank you."

He nods as if to reiterate her words—to convince himself of the evidence of his senses. The tension seems to bleed from him a little more as she rubs his shoulder.

But she pulls away, her head turning to his bow... and her quiver. "Not so sure you needed my arrows to do it, though."

His surprise comes slowly, his eyebrows arching upward as he looks back at his bow. By the time he looks back at her, he's grown bashful, but only a little, before a sly, lopsided smile curls his lips. He shrugs. "I didn't want to take my chances. I assumed you'd understand."

Sylfir hums. It's a playful sound. "Quite the assumption. It takes a deft hand to make those arrows, you know, and a good deal of time, too. They're quite valuable."

He shakes his head, his wry smile broadening. "What, you don't think your life is worth more than a few arrows?"

Sylfir feigns shock, her hand resting over her heart. "Of course I do! And they're not just 'a few arrows.' I just thought an archer with your marksmanship wouldn't need to rely on elven arrow craft."

He frowns at first, but it lasts only for a split second before he leans in closer, and his eyes take on a knowing gleam. "Trying to bait me, are you? Well, you'll have to try harder than that."

Suddenly, his voice sounds velvety to Sylfir's ear, luring her to a precipice in the same way a siren's song makes a sailor turn their ship toward jagged rocks. She hears an invitation in his baritone, just beyond tangibility to be enticing, and her heart tells her to follow... but her mind begs caution.

Caught between action and inaction, her words fail her, and she draws away from him, only slightly, but it's enough for his demeanour to shift. He grows cautious and backs away, the gleam in his eye disappearing as his wry smile turns bashful. He's almost repentant.

"I suppose you should put all your focus into recovering first, though," he says, "Khaliss tells me she hasn't been able to fully mend your wound yet."

Sylfir's hand instinctively goes to her hip, and she suddenly feels the urge to hide from him. "It's still raw, but it could be worse. It doesn't burn so much now."

"Good," Ivan says, his features turning delicate with worry. "I saw what that beast did to Tim. I was afraid you were suffering just as much."

If ever there was a time that Sylfir could deny his earnestness, it is not now. His vulnerability endears him to her. Would that you were long of ear, she thinks. She almost wishes he had never come to see her. It would be so much easier, then. Instead, she must war with herself—resist the desire for his affection, deny the evidence of her senses, and reason away her growing hope that her ever-strengthening feelings could be reciprocated. It feels so wrong to do it, but it feels worse to know that she is betraying her family and her people. She sighs.

"Is it hurting?"

Sylfir comes back to the present. When she looks at Ivan, he's frowning, flicking his gaze between her face and her hip with those worried, stormy blue eyes. With a soft gesture of her hand, she redirects his gaze to meet hers, but she can't quite hold it. "No. That's... that's not what hurts me."

His frown deepens, but she shakes her head before he can ask the question.

"Don't worry. I'll be fine. Like you said, I just need to focus on recovering."

He nods, but she can tell he's not convinced. Still, he has the courtesy not to press the issue, but he doesn't fill the resultant silence, and it lasts for a beat too long.

Sylfir shifts awkwardly. "I... Khaliss doesn't tell me much of what's going on outside this room..."

Ivan hums. "That's probably for good reason. She doesn't want to worry you."

She tilts her head curiously, her brow furrowing.

"Uh, not that there's anything to worry about," Ivan says, but he's almost tripping over his words in a rush to get them out. Sylfir knows there's something he's not telling her, and she knows he can tell what she's thinking. He scoffs at himself, shaking his head.

"It's nothing—Khaliss has it under control. It's just that... the ward around the house has weakened. We don't have the resources to strengthen it again, or anyone brave enough to search for them."

Sylfir huffs ironic laughter. "Or stupid enough."

Ivan shakes his head. "You weren't stupid, Sylf. You and Khaliss are the only reason we can even uphold the illusion of normalcy."

Sylfir finds herself nodding as the words leave his lips. His eyes are soft as he regards her—she can tell he means what he says. She can hear it in the gentleness of his voice. It makes her want to lean closer and close the distance between them. Instead, she gathers the linen of her bedsheets into a loose fist and looks away.

"Hopefully, it won't be an illusion for much longer," she says, "My friends from the High Forest should be here soon. Then we can end your terror for good."

Ivan hums, but the tone of it sounds uncertain, as does the look on his face. "You don't have to think about that now."

A breathy, nervous laugh escapes her. "Right. It's just unbearable being bedridden—I want to do something other than lie down all day."

Ivan chuckles. "We should switch places—I'm beginning to miss my bed."

The ring of his laughter makes her smile, and Sylfir can't help but play coy. "I'm not overstaying my welcome, am I?"

Ivan reflects her grin. "Not at all... though I'd prefer it if you slept on the couch. There's only space for one in my bed."

Syflir gasps. "You're a terrible host!"

With a playful air about him, Ivan shrugs. "I'm also a working man. It's getting harder to swing my scythe. I need a good night's rest, and a worn couch just won't do."

Sylfir turns her head with the petulance of a child, but a humorous smile tickles her lips. "Hmph! Well, I'm just now noticing how soft your sheets are. I think I'll stay for a night or two longer... maybe three."

Ivan laughs and Sylfir's smile broadens to see how his eyes crinkle. "You're a cruel, cruel woman. No matter. I could just carry you out of here—It wasn't any trouble to do it in the forest."

Again, Sylfir gasps. "You wouldn't. Not when you'd have to answer to Khaliss. She wouldn't suffer anyone making my injuries worse."

Ivan hums with wry laughter, though it's more a deep rumble in his chest. "Don't worry—I'd be gentle with you."

He speaks with that velvety-smooth voice again, and as he watches her through half-lidded eyes, she feels the barest hint of electricity dance across her abdomen, sparking an all-too-familiar heat. She is walking to that precipice again, dancing on a knife's edge, so close to falling. This time when he leans closer, she can't will herself to pull away.

She wants this. She wants him closer.

Close enough for their lips to brush. Close enough for their tongues to twist and slip past each other, warm and wet. She hums as her eyes flick to his smiling lips, and she can't help but lean in closer, too. When she flicks her gaze upward to meet his, she sees that the knowing gleam in his eyes has returned, and any apprehension she once had leaves her.

And then the heat in her abdomen changes. It shifts to the right, and it begins to burn. She tenses, and she feels tears sting the back of her eyes. She's caught between a groan and a whimper as she falls forward, her head landing on Ivan's shoulder.

He holds her up in his arms, and as she brings her hands to his chest, she feels his heart racing.

"Sylf?"

She whimpers. The pain is growing, burning hotter, stealing her strength. As Ivan holds her, he tries to sit her up, but she can barely hold herself in position when he tries to let go. Though tears obscure her vision, the abject fear on his face is unmistakable.

"I'm fine," she whimpers, trying to soothe him. She tries to utter the words to a healing spell, but her voice is strained and cracked—she can barely make a noise.

"You're not fine. You need help." He cradles the back of her head as he urges her to lower down onto the bed. A part of her wants to laugh. This isn't how she envisioned he would do it. She's awkward as she moves, trying to get her legs to lie flat, but the pain in her hip makes it nearly impossible, and she spasms as Ivan lays her down.

"Breathe, Sylf."

She releases the breath she didn't realise she was holding, just before her head hits the pillow. He removes his hand from the back of her neck, then wipes the tears from her cheeks, but they just keep coming.

"C-Corellon... preserve," she whispers, "It's... not usually this bad..."

When Ivan pulls away, she reaches for him on instinct. He comes back, taking her hand in his and squeezing it gently. "Don't worry, I'm only getting help."

She wants to thank him, but she can only manage a whimper. He frowns, and though he is reluctant, he turns his back on her. She watches him rush to the door, then disappear behind it, his rushed footsteps ringing in the corridor. She bites her lip as the pain pulses hotter, rising to a crescendo, and a cry forces its way through her throat, followed by a low, pitiful groan. She writhes in place—as much as the wound allows—in a futile bid for a semblance of comfort, but it's no use. It's just like the pain she experienced in that clearing in the forest, in those moments when she was closest to dying and completely alone. It makes tears well up in her eyes all over again.

But the sound of crashing footsteps grows louder, and soon they're right outside her door. They're heaving, ringing like metal. It sounds like there's only one pair.

Khaliss bursts into the room, sharp, lavender eyes darting to Sylfir, full of worry. She rushes to her with a medicine bag in hand.

"Please," Sylfir whispers.

"Shh," Khaliss says, "I will help you, but you must try to stay still." She rummages for something in her bag while Sylfir squirms.

"A s-spell," Sylfir begs.

"I am spent, child. Here, drink this."

Sylfir hears the pop! of a cork, then a fragrant smell permeates the air. She turns tearful eyes toward the bottle in the cleric's hand, bearing sloshing blue-purple liquid. She has never seen its like before, but its strangeness doesn't concern her half as much as her pain, and she parts her lips to drink deeply. Khaliss brings the rim to her mouth and tips the bottle, letting the liquid slip past her lips and down her throat. She sputters, and Khaliss lifts her head, like a mother with a babe.

"Easy now. Slowly." Khaliss withdraws the bottle from Sylfir's lips.

Sylfir gasps, clearing her throat before the liquid can go too far the wrong way, and then she quietens. She feels heavy, and her muscles begin to relax. Her eyelids grow heavy, too. The burning of her wound ebbs until it feels like no more than the waning heat of dying embers.

"Rest now," Khaliss says, and Sylfir's tired eyes turn her way to see a vision of compassion. She feels calloused fingers stroke her forehead as her eyes flutter closed, and then there is only darkness.